IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


/. 


*> 


1.0 


1.25 


>tt  l&i   12.2 
L£    i2.0 


lU 

■u 
u 


DM 


A" 

V 

^ 

^ 


^ 


VQ 


7 


V^;'^.^ 


^^♦.  // 


%J^^' 


/A 


%*   ^^    #^ 


7 


Riotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)872-4S03 


'^ 


;,5f: 


'iH 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/iCIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductlons  historlques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notaa  tachniquas  at  bibliographiquaa 


Tha  Inttituta  haa  anamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographlcaily  uniqua. 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  in  tha 
raproductlon,  or  which  may  aignificantiy  changa 
tha  uaual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  ciMckad  balow. 


□   Colourad  covara/ 
CoMvartura  da  coulaur 


r~n   Covars  damagad/ 


Couvartura  andommagia 


□   Covars  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  raataurte  at/ou  palllculAa 

□   Covar  titia  misaing/ 
La  titra  da  couvartura  manqua 

□   Colourad  maps/ 
Cartas  gtegraphiquaa  ti  coulaur 


n 

D 
D 


D 


Colourad  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noiral 


Colourad  plataa  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planchaa  at/ou  illuatrationa  m%  coulaur 

Bound  with  othar  matarial/ 
RalM  avac  d'autras  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cauaa  shadowa  or  distortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 

Laraliura  sarria  paut  causar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
distorslon  la  long  da  la  margo  inttriaura 

Blank  laavaa  addad  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certainea  pages  blanches  ajoutias 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaiaaant  dans  la  texte, 
mais.  lorsqua  cela  Atait  poasibia,  caa  pages  n'ont 
pea  «t«  filmAas. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  la  meilleur  exemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  At*  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
da  cat  exemplaira  qui  sont  paut-*tre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite.  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthoda  normala  de  filmaga 
sont  indiqute  ci-dessous. 


□  Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  da  coulaur 

r*~|   Pagaa  damaged/ 


D 

0 


Pagea  andommagiaa 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurias  at/ou  pelliculies 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe< 
Pages  dAcolortes.  tachetAes  ou  piquAes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  dcVtachias 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


r~l  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

ry\  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I     I  Pages  detached/ 

PT]  Showthrough/ 


r~n   Quality  of  print  varies/ 


QuaMt*  inAgala  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprand  du  matiriel  supplAmentaira 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refiimed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  psges  totalament  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  itt  filmies  A  nouveau  de  faq on  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


El 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentairas  supplAmantaires: 


Wrinkltd 


may  film  slightly  out  of  focus. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-dessous. 


lex 

i^v 

lav                                  99V                                   9AV                                  9nv 

y 

12X 


16X 


2CX 


24X 


28X 


32X 


Th«  copy  flini«d  hmn  has  b—n  r«produe«cl  thanks 
to  tho  gonorotity  of: 

Nmv  Brunswick  MutMim 
Saint  John 

Tho  imagoo  appoaring  haro  aro  tho  boat  quality 
poaaiblo  conaMoring  tho  condition  and  iogibility 
of  tho  original  copy  and  In  kooping  with  tho 
filming  contract  apociflcationa. 


L'oxomplairo  fiimA  f ut  roprodult  grico  i  la 
g4n4roait*  do: 

Naw  Brunswick  MusMim 
Saint  John 

Laa  imagaa  auhrantaa  ont  4t4  roprodultoa  avoc  lo 
plua  grand  soln,  compto  tonu  do  la  condition  ot 
do  la  nottot*  do  l'oxomplairo  flimi,  ot  an 
conformit*  avac  loa  condltiona  du  contrat  da 
fllmago. 


Original  copioa  in  printed  papor  covora  aro  flimod 
beginning  with  tho  from  eovor  and  anding  on 
tho  last  paga  with  a  primad  or  iiluatratad  impraa* 
sion,  or  tho  back  cover  whon  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  primed  or  Illustrated  Impree- 
sion.  snd  snding  on  the  laat  page  with  e  primed 
or  illustrated  improasion. 


Lea  exemplaires  origineux  dom  la  couverture  en 
papkN*  eat  ImprimAe  som  f  ilmte  en  common^ant 
par  la  premier  plot  ot  en  terminam  soit  par  la 
demMro  pogo  qui  comporte  une  empreime 
d'improeakin  ou  dlliuatration,  soit  par  lo  second 
plat,  salon  lo  cos.  Tous  lee  autree  exemplaires 
origineux  aont  fllmte  en  commen^m  per  la 
promlAro  pogo  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
dimpreeaion  ou  d'lllustration  et  en  terminam  par 
la  demMre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


Tho  last  recorded  frame  on  oech  microfiche 
shall  contain  tho  symbol  — »•  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tho  symbol  ▼  (mooning  "END"), 
whichever  applloe. 


Un  dee  symboiss  suivanta  apparattra  sur  la 
demMro  Imago  do  cheque  microfiche,  selon  lo 
caa:  lo  symbole  — »>  signlfle  "A  SUIVRE",  lo 
symbolo  ▼  signlfle  "FIN". 


Mapa.  plates,  charts,  etc.,  mey  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratioa.  Thoao  too  largo  to  bo 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  tho  upper  left  hand  comer,  loft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framoa  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Lee  cartee,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  pouvom  Atro 
film4e  A  doa  taux  da  rMuetlon  diff Arents. 
Lorsquo  lo  documem  Mt  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
roprodult  en  un  soul  cilchA,  11  est  fllmi  A  partir 
do  I'angle  supArieur  gauche,  do  gauche  A  drolte, 
ot  do  haut  en  baa.  en  prenom  lo  nombre 
d'Imeges  nAcessalre.  Los  diagrammes  suh^anta 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1  2  3 


1  2  3 

4  8  6 


vTV.'     •■      •  •• 


\,\ 


\   I 


1^ 


'      ' 

I 

}' 

i 

1. 

'If 


4  *;, 
4 


.SciiJeMiigexi' 


HW.  Smith  So 


F(C))[K:((Sii:T    m\£.    f^i©Ta 


''■V" 


.,    *r 


O 


W^^VI^ 


m' 


I 


■5?^ 


* 


■i.'- 


ScL3e; 


'¥<:.S 


-:.vg; -ijii*. 


* 


J% 


>.•.- 


.€- 


*fe. 


4 


*-4 


I 


^/9  3 


*' 


■sj.' 


■^7 


THB 


LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY, 


FOB 


¥ 


>Sl. 


1852. 


.?'i  Alt, 


BDITXD  BY 

MBS.  M.  A.  LIVEEMORE. 


I 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    M.   USHER. 

OINOINNATi:  J.  A.  OUBLIT. 


i.'- 


Entered,  lecordinf  to  Act  of  Coiigreae,  In  the  year  1861, 

Bt  JAMES  M.  USHER, 
In  the  Clerk'e  Office  of  the  Diatrict  Court  of  MaMtchuietta. 


:r.^- 


PREFACE 


Under  the  nurturing  sunlight  of  public  favor,  and 
the  fostering  care  of  patrons  and  friends,  the  Lily  has 
again  ventured  to  put  forth  its  petals,  amid  the  many 
"  annuals"  that  grace  this  season  of  the  year  with 
their  blossoming. 

It  is  again  tendered  to  the  public,  with  the  hope  that 
it  may  prove  an  acceptable  offering,  advanced  in  lit- 
erary excellence,  and  without  moral  blemish  or  imper- 
fection. 

May  the  kindly  reception  granted  it  on  its  first 
appearance  be  again  accorded  to  it,  with  such  a  meas- 
ure of  encouragement  and  patronage  as  shall  lead  to 
its  more  perfect  development,  and  to  the  perpetuity  of 
its  existence. 

July  31,  1851. 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 

-  »  ■- 

(Frontispieoe,) — 

ViQNKTTB  (Title-page) "" 

«♦  Lord,  havk  Mbboy  upon  us," 6^ 

Education  o?  Natueb 1°* 

Napoleon  and  his  Son, ^^2 

The  Spinnino-Whkbl, ^72 


CONTENTS.     . 

♦   ■ 

Thk  Watkb  Bylph,    ....  Prof,  Alpheus  Crodty,  11 

Thk  Exile, Mitt  Phabe  Carey,  .     84 

TuK  Fortunate  Aooidemt,  .  Mrt.  M.  A.  Livermore,  80 

The  WiiiLinANTio, Mrt  M,  Ji.  Livermore,  67 

Jottings  rBOM  a  Foreign 

Tour, Rev.  A.  B.  Muzzey,    60 

*' Lord,  HAVE  Merot  upon  us,"  .^r<.  JV*.  T.  Munrott  69 
**  Dost  thou  well  to  be 

Angrt," Horace  Greeley,    .  .     72 

Pergolesi, Rev.  J.  W.  Hanton,      82 

A  Brazilian  SKxrron,    .   .   .  G.  H.  Ballon,  ...     86 

Sonnet, M.  A.  L 107 

The  Heart  Chamber,  .  .  Rev.  Henry  Bacon,  .  108 
Impressions  or  a  Bi-Centeninal 

Day, Rev.  J.  G.  Adamt,  .    Ill 

La  Puebla  be  los  Angelos,  Mrt.  M.  A.  Livermore,  185 

Education  op  Nature,     .   .  M.  A.  L., 187 

The  Good  Time  Now,  .  .  .  Rev.  Henry  Bacon,  .  189 
Thoughts  by  Lake  St.  Charles, 

NEAR  Quebec Rev.  A.  G.  Laurie,  .    167 

A  Chapter  prom  the  History 

op  a  Family, Mrt.  M.  A,  Livermore,  169 

t 


Vni  CONTENTS. 

TnK  Anniversart,    .   .   .  James  Lumbardt   .   .   .  189 

Napoleon  and  his  Son,    .  Mrs.  M.  A.  Livermore,  192 

The  Pilot Miss.  E.  Doten,    ...  106 

Tiik!  Home  of  the  Soul,  .  Rev.  R.  Tomlinson,    .  201 

TUE  AllTIST  AND   HIS  LiTTLE 

Friend, Mrs.  M.  A.  Livermorey  213 

St.  Valentine's  Morning,  Mrs.  M.  A.  Livermore,  244 

The  Two  Vessels,      .   .   .  Mrs.  C.  M.  Sawyer,  .  2G7 

The  Spinning-Whekl,   .   .  M.  A.  L., 272 

The  Defaulting  Brook,  .  Mrs.  T.  P.  Smith,  .   .  274 

Amie, M.  A.L., 297 

The  Parting  of  Sigurd  and 

Gerda, Miss  E.  Doten,    .       .  300 

The  Meeting  of  Sigurd  and 

Gerda Miss  E.  Doten,    .   .   .  304 


m 


THE 


LILY   OF  THE  VALLEY 


THE  WATER  SYLPH. 


BY    PKOP.    A.     CBOSBT. 

I  THREW  myself  down  in  my  rocking-chair, 
last  evening,  as  is,  perhaps,  too  much  my  wont, 
for  meditation.  I  know  that  it  is  a  dangerous 
place  for  a  student,  especially  uefore  a  good  fire 
in  a  long  winter  evening ;  and,  most  of  all,  when 
another  chair  stands  at  a  convenient  distance  for 
the  feet,  so  that  your  v;ell-stuffed  rocking-chair 
becomes  a  delicious  compound  of  a  seat  and  a 
bed.  It  is  then  a  species  of  enchanted  ground, 
belonging  to  that  mighty  wizard,  Indolence.  All 
around  it,  there  are  invisible  cords,  which  fasten 
themselves  about  head,  and  neck,  and  body,  and 
arms,  and  feet,  until  the  luckless  wight  who 
has  trusted  himself  there  has  become  a  close 
prisoner,  —  both  mind  and  body  helplessly  cap- 


T*;- 


.'■^■r-n'/vv.-jy^-t- 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 

tive.  His  fate  reminds  us  of  Gulliver,  bound 
down  by  the  Lilliputians,  or  of  Samson,  with  his 
locks  shorn  in  the  lap  of  Delilah ;  but  neither  the 
miniature  men  of  Lilliput,  nor  the  siren  of  the 
valley  of  Sorek,  had  the  power  of  binding  mind, 
as  well  as  body,  to  inaction.  And  yet,  there  is  a 
charm  that  tempts  us  to  venture  upon  the  peril- 
ous ground,  against  all  the  lessons  of  experience, 
and  the  loud  warnings  that  come  to  us  from 
repealled  imprisonment  in  past  time,  and  from 
many  a  lost  hour.  Can  we  find,  anywhere,  a 
more  striking  verification  of  the  expressive  lan- 
guage of  Thomson  ?  — 

*•  A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was, 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 

Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 

Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 
And  the  calm  pleasures  always  hovered  nigh; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest.'* 

I  was  venturing,  last  evening,  as  I  said,  to 
partake,  though  I  intended  to  do  it  very  guard- 


THB   WATER  SYLPH. 


13 


edly,  of  "the  soft  delights"  of  "this  delicious 
nest."  By  degrees,  every  wave  of  agitated  feel- 
ing subsided  to  a  perfect  calm,  and  my  thoughts, 
which  had  been  roaming  abroad,  all  came  home 
to  nestle  ;  till,  at  last,  my  sole  occupation  was  to 
watch  a  little  column  of  vapor,  gently  rising  from 
the  tube  of  a  water-urn,  which  had  been  con- 
nected with  my  grate  to  prevent  the  air  of  the 
room  from  becoming  too  dry.  And  now,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  I  began  to  perceive  that  the 
particles  of  vapor  had  a  distinctly  visible  and 
organized  form.  They  •  issued  from  the  mouth 
of  the  tube,  having  the  appearance  of  the  tiniest 
fairies  that  imagination  could  conceive  of, — 
mere  infinitesimals,  and  yet  perfect  in  every 
limb  and  feature.  As  they  rose,  and  the  expan- 
sion of  the  column  gave  them  room,  their  size  en- 
larged, but  they  soon  vanished  into  thin  air.  At 
last,  one  of  these  little  beings,  seeming  to  catch 
my  eager  eye,  left  the  column  and  came  towards 
me.  As  she  approached,  —  for  the  visitant  wore 
a  sweetly  feminine  aspect,  —  her  form  dilated,  till 
it  had  reached  the  stature  which  my  fancy  had 


•  ^1 


u 


THE   WATEE   SYLPH. 


been  wont  to  ascribe  to  the  sylphs  of  the  air,  — 
those  happy  beings,  who,  as  the  poets  tell  us, 

"  In  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day.** 

She  stood  before  me,  with  a  sweet  smile  upon 
her  exquisite  and  brightly  beaming  features,  but 
silent,  and  evidently  waiting  for  me  to  address 
her.  I  gazed  a  moment  in  admiration,  and  then 
spoke,  in  the  gentlest  tones  I  could  command :  — 

"  Who  art  thou,  bright  being,  that  hast  come 
to  visit  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied,  with  a  soft  voice,  of 
bird-like  melody,  —  "  nothing  but  a  mere  particle 
of  water." 

"But  whence,"  I  asked,  "hast  thou  this  fairy 
form,  and  this  wondrous  gift  of  speech  ?  " 

"  They  are  bestowed  upon  us  all,  after  a  cer- 
tain number  of  circuits  through  air,  earth,  and 
sea,  as  a  reward  for  our  services." 

"Didst  thou  receive  these  gifts  ages  ago,  or 
but  lately?" 

"  Quite  lately.  Indeed,  I  have  made  only  one 
full  circuit  since  their  bestowment.      All  my 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


u 


air,— 

IS, 


>> 


e  upon 

•es,  but 

iddress 

id  then 

ind:  — 

'S 

;t  come 

)ice,  of 

particle 

s  fairy 

a  cer- 

h,  and 

igo,  or 

ily  one 
Lu  my 


previous  existence  seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back 
upon  it,  only  as  the  dim  tracery  of  an  almost  for- 
gotten dream,  —  a  faint,  vague  impression  of 
consitant  hurry,  of  ceaseless  motion,  and  nothing 


more." 

"  0  then,  fair  spirit ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  deign  to 
relate  to  me  the  history  of  thy  recent,  thy  con- 
scious existence." 

I  was  delighted  to  hear  the  reply,  "With 
pleasure,"  and  listened  with  intense  eagerness, 
as  the  sylph  proceeded  :  — 

"  When  I  first  awoke  to  consciousness,  I  found 
myself  emerging  from  a  sparkling  fountain  upon 
a  hill-side,  into  a  playful  rill.  I  was  surrounded 
by  companions  like  myself,  and  with  these  I  ran 
down  the  hill,  joyously  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock.  In  the  ravine  at  the  bottom,  we  found  a 
rivulet  of  a  larger  size,  into  which  we  passed. 
Here  our  occupations  were  more  various,  but  all 
delightful,  especially  to  me,  to  whom  everything 
was  new.  Sometimes  we  ran  a  race  with  each 
other,  down  a  steep  descent,  over  a  rocky  bed, 
joining  our  little  voices  to  make  all  the  babbling 
we  could.    Then  we  would  loiter  in  our  course, 


■til 


m 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


and,  joining  hands  with  each  other,  whirl  around 
in  a  little  pool.  Sometimes  we  amused  our- 
selves by  playing  with  the  grass  upon  the  bank, 
or  with  the  depending  branch  of  an  over-hanging 
willow.  Again,  we  frolicked  with  a  group  of 
noisy  urchins,  who,  having  pulled  off  their  shoes, 
if  perchance  they  wore  any,  and  having  rolled  up 
their  trousers,  would  work  like  beavers  to  stop 
us  by  a  dam.  Fruitless  toil!  for,  after  a  few 
minutes  of  sport  with  them,  we  would  either 
leap  their  barrier,  or,  quite  as  often,  sweep  it 
away.  But  our  favorite  playmate  was  the 
dappled  trout,  and  we  owed  a  bitter  spite  to  the 
hard-hearted  man  or  wanton  boy  who  sought  to 
lure  him  to  the  cruel  hook.  But,  pray,  since  I 
have  answered  thy  questions  so  readily,  please  to 
solve  a  difficulty  of  mine." 

"With  all  my  heart,  if  1  can,"  I  replied. 
"What  is  it?" 

"  I  have  often  wondered  what  can  induce  so 
many  of  your  race  to  toil,  day  after  day,  with 
hook  and  line  and  pole,  and  to  take  so  many  a 
weary  step  along  the  banks  of  a  small  brook,  for 


''■■'n 


r 


THE  WATER  SYLPH. 


17 


the  sake  of  obtaining  a  few  tiny  fishes.  Are 
they  influenced  by  avarice,  or  by  malignity  ? " 

"  By  neither,  I  hope.  But  why  propose  such 
an  alternative  ? "  ' 

"I  have  supposed  that  they  must  have  in 
view  either  profit  or  pleasure;  and  I  have  ob- 
served that  these  trout-hunters  are  not  com- 
monly of  the  poor,  but  of  the  rich.  If,  therefore, 
they  are  willing  to  make  such  exertions  for  the 
mere  paltry  profit  of  a  few  little  fishes,  they  must 
be  miserly  indeed." 

"  0,  that  is  not  their  motive ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  then,"  she  proceeded,  "  let  us  make  the 
other  supposition.  If  they  can  find  so  great  pleas- 
ure in  the  cruel  tortures  and  lingering  death  of 
beings  whom  the  same  Great  Father  created,  — 
and  created  that  he  might  rejoice  in  their  happi- 
ness, and  that  their  gambols  might  speak  his 
praise,  —  must  not  their  hearts  be  full  of  a 
desperate  malignity  ?  Or  is  not  this  the  word  to 
express  that  character  which  finds  pleasure  in  tho 
pain  of  others?"        ;    ^i 

"  Alas ! "  I  replied,  "  I  know  not  what  plea  to 
urge  in  behalf  of  such  pleasure-seekers,  except 
2* 


4 


ts 


THE  WATER  STLFR. 


the  very  poor  one  of  thoughtlessness.  Let  thii 
mitigate  their  offence,  as  far  as  it  will;  for,  in 
truth,  tfaey  are  not  themselves  as  hard-hearted  as 
we  must  pronounce  their  occupation  to  be.  1 
have  known  benevolent  clergymen,  even  doctors 
of  divinity,  who  delighted  in  the  sport;  nay, 
stranger  still,  tender-hearted  ladies,  that  would 
weep  hour  after  hour  over  scenes  of  imaginary 
distress."  ♦ 

T^e  sylph  gave  an  incredulous  shrug,  as  much 
as  to  say  that  the  benevolence  and  tender-heart- 
edness of  such  clergymen  and  ladies  must  be 
merely  imaginary.  I  made  no  reply  to  the 
shrug ;  for,  though  I  did  not  wish  to  say  it,  I  was 
fully  convinced  that  she  was  at  least  half  right. 
She  seemed  to  understand  me ;  and,  with  a  deli- 
cate regard  for  my  feelings,  said  no  more  upon 
tile  subject,  but  proceeded  with  her  narrative. 

"  From  the  rivulet,  we  passed  into  a  brook  of 
a  larger  size ;  and  here  we  found  a  dam,  not  the 
sportive  work  of  boys,  but  the  solid  construction 
of  men.  From  this  we  could  obtain  release  only 
on  condition  that  we  would  turn  a  water-wheel, 
and  thus  assist  the  neighboring  farmers  in  grind- 


■i^t' 


TRfi  WATER  SYLPH. 


19 


ing  their  grain.  As  we  deem  all  useful  labor 
honorable  ["Would  that  all  men  did!"  I  ex- 
claimed to  myself],  we  did  not  refuse  the  condi- 
tion. We  found  it  mere  spori  to  ride  down  in 
the  buckets  of  the  wheel,  and  went  on  our  way 
rejoicing.  We  were  soon  received  into  a  small 
river,  of  which  the  brook  was  a  branch.  Our 
occupations  were  now  more  various,  and  though 
less  playful  than  at  the  beginning  of  our  course, 
yet  they  brought  us  a  far  higher  delight,  because 
we  felt  that  they  were  more  useful.  Thou  hast 
doubtless  learned  that  the  highest  joy  consists  in 
living  for  the  happiness  of  others,  and  that  all 
true  good  has  this  remarkable  property,  —  that 
he  who  gives  away  the  most  of  it  to  others,  also 
keeps  the  most  for  himself."  '         *'^'  '' 

"I  am  not  ignorant  of  that  great  truth,"  I 
replied ;  "  and  I  recognize  in  it  a  wonderful  proof 
of  the  wisdom  and  benevolence  of  our  Heavenly- 
Father.  Yet  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  have 
not  observed  it  as  1  ought,  in  my  practice.  But 
what  were  these  occupations  ?  " 

"Sometimes  we  joined  in  bearing  up  a  boat 
freighted  with  gay  young  hearts,  who  were  in 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


quest  of  innocent  recreation,  and  who  made  our 
shores  vocal  with  their  melodies.  Sometimes, 
and  with  no  less  pleasure,  we  urged  on  a  raft, 
which  had  been  laden  by  hard-working  laborers. 
It  was  a  frequent  and  a  pleasant  work  to  set  in 
motion  the  machinery  of  those  who  were  produc- 
ing articles  to  supply  the  wants  of  their  fellow- 
men.  We  imparted  of  our  own  buoyancy  and 
vigor  to  the  swimmer's  limbs.  We  bore  nutri- 
tious particles,  which  we  deposited  upon  all 
the  meadows  within  our  reach;  and  often  lin- 
gered in  our  course  to  observe  and  assist  the 
farmer's  labors.  But  there  was  one  act  which  I 
remember  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  any 
other." 

"What  was  it?"     ^;  :.,.*. 

"  One  day  a  poor  widow  came  down  to  the 
river-side,  with  a  basket  of  clothes,  which  she 
had  undertaken  to  wash,  that  she  might  have 
some  means  of  procuring  bread  for  her  little 
ones.  She  looked  already  weary  and  faint. 
She  put  her  basket  into  the  water,  and  then  sank 
down  exhausted.  We  saw  her,  and,  hastening 
to  her  aid,  we  took  the  soiled  garments,  and,  by 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


21 


those  arts  of  purifying  which  we  understand  so 
well,  extracted  every  offensive  particle,  so  that 
when  at  length  she  had  recovered  a  little 
strength,  and  raised  herself  to  commence  her 
work,  behold,  it  was  already  done.  Every  gar- 
ment was  white  as  the  driven  snow.  I  shall 
never  forget  with  what  wondering  joy  her  eyes 
were  directed  downwards  to  her  basket,  and  then 
with  what  fervent  gratitude  they  were  lifted  up, 
to  thank  Him  who  is  the  widow's  God  and  the 
Fatlier  of  the  fatherless." 

She  dropped  a  tear  of  sympathy  for  the  poor 
widow,  in  which  I  could  scarce  refrain  from  join- 
ing her,  and  then  proceeded:  — 

"The  river  in  which  we  now  were,  passed 
through  a  small  lake,  and,  happening  to  arrive 
here  just  as  winter  was  setting  in,  we  firmly 
joined  hand  in  hand,  and  formed  a  transparent 
covering  to  protect  our  fishes  from  the  cold. 
We  might  have  found  the  confinement  tedious, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  amusement  which  ruddy- 
cheeked  boys  gave  us,  by  skating  over  the  glassy 
surface.  At  length  the  genial  breath  of  Spring 
came,  and  we  felt  at  liberty  to  pursue  our  way.. 


II! 


22 


THE   WATIR   8YLFH. 


t 


u 


Hurrying  on,  we  soon  became  part  of  a  mighty 

stream,  which  bore  up  steamboats  and  merchant 

ships,  and  swept  proudly  through  fertile  valleys 

and  by  rich  marts  of  trade.     At  last,  througrV  :hc 

river's  broad  mouth,  we  entered  the  -".M  o  eu... 

And  now  my  first  feeling  was,  thn*,  Wv,  w  ^    all 

lost  in  the  measureless  expaiise       .ut  we  soon 

found,  such  was  the  hospitL.lity  with  which  we 

were  received,  that,  if  we  had  lost  ourselves,  we 

had  found  a  host  of  friends.     Here  I  remained 

several  months,  taking  part  in  all  those  great 

transactions  of  which  the  ocean  is  the  scene. 

I* 
Now  I  was  busy  in  wafting  a  fleet,  —  now,  in 

raising  a  tempest ;  at  one  time  in  smoothing  the 
ocean  surface  to  a  glassy  calm,  and  at  another  in 
breaking  it  into  terrific  billows;  now  in  hiding 
the  whale  from  his  pursuers,  and  now  in  dissolv- 
ing a  dangerous  iceberg.  One  act,  and  only 
one,  I  regret."  ■        r      '    :    f^ - 

*♦  What  was  thin  «  " 
-    "Curiosity  iruiujca  luj  to  join  a  large  party 
who  were  going  to  visit  the  famous  Maelstrom, 
upon  the  Norway  coast.    Here  I  became  fren- 
zied, like  the  rest,  in  the  maddening  whirl,  and 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


in  the  wild  mania  of  furious  exc  itement,  I  aided 
in  drawing  into  our  vortex  a  fisherman's  rk. 
In  mad  merriment,  we  whirled  it  round  an  I 
round.  Each  revolution  was  more  rapid  than 
the  preceding,  and  brought  it  nearer  the  centre. 
At  length  it  reached  the  fatal  spot,  and  the  pk  - 
ing  cry  of  the  crew,  as  the  vessel  was  c.igulfeu, 
awoke  me  from  my  delirium  to  the  agonizing 
consciousness  that  in  ni)  frantic  sport  I  had  been 
taking  life,  and  making  orphans  and  widows. 
O!  that  cry!     It  is  evei    now  ringing  in  my 


ear."      •-■        -.     •   '-.  •-    •     •    '■■       '■  ♦•* 

"  Still,  thou  art  happy,  i  '^  thou  hast  but  one 
deed  to  regret.  But  how  didst  thou  leave  the 
ocean  ? " 

"  I  had  begun  to  regard  it  as  my  permanent 
home,  when,  one  warm  day,  as  I  happened  to  be 
upon  the  surface,  I  observed  tnat  some  of  my 
companions  had  wings,  and  wer  rising  into  the 
air.  I  was  struck  with  amazem  nt  at  this  new 
sight ;  but,  looking  round  at  my  own  shoulders,  I 
perceived  that  pinions  were  springing  from  them 
also.  Yielding  to  an  irresistible  impulse,  I  made 
trial  of  them  j  and,  rejoicing  in  this  new  faculty. 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


rose,  with  my  companions,  into  the  air.  Our 
life  was  now  one  of  wonderful  freedom,  and  of 
strange  privilege.  We  had  the  power  of  assum- 
ing different  shapes  and  colors,  and  even  of 
becoming  invisible.  By  arranging  our  squadrons 
in  various  forms,  we  give  signs  of  a  coming 
storm  or  of  fair  weather  to  the  anxious  mariner. 
Once,  when  a  large  vessel  was  pursuing  a 
smaller  one,  we  came  down  and  formed  a  mist 
around  the  fugitive.  Under  this  concealment, 
she  changed  her  course,  and  made  her  escape. 
We  then  vanished,  and  left  her  to  pursue  her 
way  under  a  bright  sky.  After  some  time  thus 
spent  over  the  ocean,  a  desire  came  upon  us  to 
visit  the  scene  of  our  early  wanderings,  and  look 
down  upon  the  land  through  which  we  had 
flowed  in  streamlet,  and  brook,  and  river.  A 
strong  east  wind  arose  opportunely  to  bear  us  to 
the  American  coast,  and  from  the  coast  into  the 
interior.  We  first  showed  our  power  by  forming 
a  gloomy  veil,  which  hid  the  sun.  But,  observ- 
ing that  this  brought  us  a  cold  welcome,  we  rose 
higher  into  the  air,  and,  reflecting  the  sun's 
beams,  presented  to  the  eye  a  mass  of  dazzling 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


25 


white.  Sometimes  we  dispersed  ourselves  over 
the  heavens  in  thin  and  fantastic  but  beautiful 
lines ;  and  then,  again,  took  part  in  the  golden 
glories  of  a  gorgeous  sunset.  One  day,  finding 
the  air  of  a  chilly  coldness,  we  chose  to  fold  up 
our  wings,  and  descend  to  the  earth.  I  united 
with  several  others  to  form  a  drop;  and, the  sun 
striking  upon  us  in  our  descent,  we  reflected  his 
rays  in  the  bright  hues  of  the  rainbow.  Return- 
ing to  the  earth  after  so  long  an  absence,  I  first 
sank  into  its  bosom ;  but,  after  pursuing  a  short 
subterranean  course,  I  emerged  again  to  the 
light,  in  a  clear  fountain,  near  the  Cochituate 
lake.  I  hurried  into  the  lake,  and  thence  I 
came  hither,  by  the  noble  path-way  which  has 
been  opened  with  so  much  toil,  to  tempt  us 
lovers  of  the  country  to  visit  the  city.  I  am  now 
rising  again,  thanks  to  the  genial  warmth  of  this 
good  fire,  to  revisit  the  air ;  and,  shouldst  thou 
wish  it,  when  I  see  thee  again,  I  will  give  thee  a 
tale  of  new  adventures." 

"Thanks,  many  thanks,  for  this  recital;  but 
go  not  yet.  I  have  still  many  things  to  ask 
thee." 


THE   WATER   STLFH. 


"I  cannot  stay  "to  answer  them.  My  com- 
panions are  already  far  in  advance  of  me.  And 
yet,  I  will  not  go  without  one  parting  word. 
Blessings  attend  thee,  mortal;  and  if  thou 
wouldst  be  virtuous  and  happy,  be  like  me ! " 

She  was  already  leaving  me,  as  she  uttered 
this.  "Nay,  not  yet!"  I  cried;  and  sprang 
forward  to  detain  her  by  force.  But  she  had 
now  become  invisible.  Nor  could  I  longer  dis- 
cern anything  of  the  ascending  host  of  water- 
spirits.  I  looked  intently,  and  rubbed  my  eyes, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen,  except  a  little 
column  of  vapor. 

"  So,  then,"  I  said  to  myself,  aloud,  "  it  is  all 
a  dream ;  and,  in  spite  of  my  good  resolutions,  I 
have  been  asleep,  this  so  long  time,  in  my  chair. 
Well,  for  once  I  cannot  regret  it." 


I  have  no  superstitious  faith  in  dreams;  but 
this  was  so  very  vivid,  and  so  odd  in  its  charac- 
ter, that  I  have  not  been  able  to  keep  it  out  of 
my  mind.  Especially  have  my  thoughts  been 
busy  in  attempting  to  find  some  meaning  for 
the  parting  words,  whose  sweet  music  seemed 


'^r- 
'<'^ 


H 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


27 


lingering  in  my  ear,  as  I  awoke:  —  "If  thou 
wouldst  be  virtuous  and  happy,  be  like  me." 

"  What !  be  like  a  particle  of  water  ?  Surely, 
that  is  fantastic  enough  for  one  of  Horace's  *  sick 
man's  dreams.'  I  will  not  waste  another  thought 
upon  such  an  absurd  precept." 

But  not  to  think  upon  it  I  found  to  be  impossi- 
ble; and  these  are  some  of  the  results  of  my 
thinking:  — 


A  particle  of  water  is  a  strict  observer  of  the 
principles  of  equality,  fraternity,  and  sympathy. 
In  a  vessel  of  water,  we  have  a  perfect  democ- 
racy, such  as  human  society  knows  nothing  of. 
The  equality  among  the  particles  is  absolute,  and 
is  not  at  all  affected  by  their  position  in  the  mass. 
Whether  they  happen  to  be  at  the  top,  in  the 
middle,  at  the  sides,  or  at  the  bottom,  of  the  ves- 
sel, they  are  alike  free  and  "  equal,"  and  "  en- 
dowed with  certain  unalienable  rights."  Each 
particle  occupies  as  much  room  as  it  wants,  is 
free  to  change  its  position  whenever  it  pleases, 
and  exerts  an  influence  which  is  felt  by  every 
other  particle  in  the  mass.    Nor  is  there  here 


28 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


any  lack  of  fraternity  or  sympathy.  There  are 
no  warring  parties ;  there  are  no  individual  feuds ; 
there  is  no  attempt  of  one  to  destroy  or  oppress 
another ;  there  is  no  assumption  by  any  one  of 
superiority  over  any  other ;  there  is  no  contempt 
of  the  lower  by  the  higher,  and  no  envy  of  the 
higher  by  the  lower.  They  all  dwell  together  as 
brethren,  scrupulously  respecting  each  other's 
rights,  having  a  mutual  and  universal  attraction, 
and  actuated  by  a  sympathy  so  perfect,  that  no 
effect  can  be  produced  upon  a  single  particle 
without  affecting  every  other  particle  in  the 
mass.  What  lessons  are  there  here  for  me !  I, 
too,  belong  to  an  assemblage,  and  a  vast  assem- 
blage, where,  amid  all  the  diversities  of  position, 
and  all  the  changes  and  varieties  of  movement, 
an  essential  equality  belongs  of  right  to  every 
individual.  By  the  principles  of  natural  law, 
every  one  has  an  equal  right  to  subsistence,  to 
occupation,  to  knowledge,  to  dignity,  to  happi- 
ness. We  are  all  alike  endowed  with  immortal 
powers,  capable  of  endless  expansion.  What 
matters  it  whether,  in  this  embryo  state,  one 
passes  his  little  day  in  a  palace  or  in  a  cottage  ? 


THE    WATER    SYLPH. 


29 


What  matters  it  whether  he  grasps  a  handful 
more  or  less  of  shining  dust  ?  Among  immortal 
beings,  can  any  distinctions  which  are  but  for  a 
day,  give  to  one  man  any  real  superiority  over 
another  ?    Well  did  the  poet  say, 

••  I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  —  and  peal, 
Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
Into  my  ears,  this  truth  —  Thou  liv'st  forever  !  ** 

Nor  is  this  the  equality  of  isolated  beings.  We 
are  all  bound  together  by  cords  of  sympathy, 
which  we  may  disregard,  but  which  we  can 
never  break.  If  I  am  indifferent  to  the  happiness 
of  a  single  fellow-being,  I  am  cherishing  a  spirit 
which  is  inconsistent  with  my  own  happiness. 
But,  without  this  indifference,  if  I  know  that 
others  suffer,  how  can  I  help  suffering  with 
them  ?  The  conclusion  is  unavoidable.  My 
happiness  is  bound  up  in  the  happiness  of  others, 
and  their  happiness  in  mine.  As  then  I  would 
be  happy  myself,  let  me  do  all  in  my  power  for 
the  happiness  of  others,  —  for  their  happiness 
here,  —  for  their  happiness  in  the  life  that  is  to 


30 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


i 


come.  Let  me  concentmte  all  my  strength  of 
emotion,  of  thought,  of  purpose,  of  exertion,  upon 
this  noble,  this  angelic,  this  Divine  work. 

"  Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 

And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know,  — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above  ; 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow, 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow; 
The  seed  that  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
^all  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  yield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal  bowers." 

But  let  me  pursue  my  inquiry,  and  see  what 
other  lessons  I  can  derive,  from  a  particle  of 
water.  It  is  strictly  observant  of  law ;  it  never 
violates  a  single  ordinance  of  its  Creator ;  it  con- 
forms with  equal  readiness  and  ease  to  every 
position  in  which  it  may  be  placed ;  it  accommo- 
dates itself  as  gracefully  to  the  tin  cup  of  the 
child  as  to  the  golden  goblet  of  the  monarch.  It 
never  delays,  and  is  never  wearied  in  its  work. 
What  a  model  is  there  here  for  my  imitation! 
There  are  laws  which  I,  too,  must  observe,  if  I 
would  accomplish  anything  for  my  own  good  or 


THE  WATER   SYLPB. 


31 


for  the  good  of  others,  —  laws  of  matter  and  of 
spirit;  of  body,  mind,  and  heart;  laws  estab- 
lished by  infinite  wisdom  and  boundless  love,  no 
less  than  by  absolute  power.  These  laws  let  me 
study,  and  let  me  strive  to  conform  to  them  in 
every  thought  and  feeling,  —  in  every  word  and 
action.  My  position  in  life  may  not  be  that 
which  I  should  have  chosen,  if  the  privilege  of 
choice  had  been  given  me.  But  it  is  the  precise 
position  which  One  who  sees  "  the  end  from  the 
beginning "  saw  to  be  the  very  best  possible  for 
me,  with  reference  to  all  my  interests.  As  such, 
then,  let  me  cheerfully  and  thankfully  accept 
it,  assured  that  even  the  resources  of  infinite 
love  could  provide  for  me  nothing  better.  Let 
my  sole  anxiety  be  how  I  can  best  fulfil  its  duties. 
Let  me  never  hereafter  yield  to  Procrastination, 
the  "  thief"  that  "  steals  year  after  year,  till  all 
are  fled."  Let  me  never  more  sleep  in  the  en- 
chanted bowers  of  Indolence. 


"  Wake,  ere  the  earth-bom  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  Divine  addressed; 
Do  something,  —  do  it  soon,  —  with  all  thy  might. 
An  angeVs  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest. 
And  God  himself,  inactive,  were  no  longer  blest. 


32 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


"  Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 

Contemplate,  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food. 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined. 
Pray  Heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 

To  this  thy  purpose  —  to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fixed,  and  feelings  purely  kind  ; 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  revieW) 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due." 

But  there  is  yet  one  lesson  more.  The 
particle  of  water,  in  its  beneficent  course  through 
streamlet,  brook,  and  river,  is  continually  de- 
scending, till  at  last  it  is  received  by  the  ocean, 
and  then  seems  to  have  lost  the  power  of  confer- 
ring any  further  benefits  upon  the  land  through 
which  it  has  flowed.  The  great  law  of  gravita- 
tion, which  binds  the  universe  together,  appears 
to  forbid  its  return.  But  no !  By  a  mysterious 
process,  it  rises  towards  heaven,  and,  borne  aloft, 
revisits  mountain,  and  plain,  and  meadow !  Thus 
it  maintains  that  continual  circuit  upon  which 
the  fertility  and  beauty  of  the  earth  and  the  life 
of  its  inhabitants  depend.  So  let  it  be  with  me. 
Whenever  I  find  my  strength  declining  in  the 


THE   WATER   SYLPH. 


33 


labors  of  earth,  let  me  soar  heavenward,  in  de- 
vout aspiration  and  earnest  prayer.  While  liv- 
ing on  the  earth,  and  for  the  earth,  let  me  still 
live  above  the  earth.  While  hands  and  feet  are 
busy  in  their  sphere,  let  mind  and  heart  ascend 
to  that  pure,  blissful,  and  glorious  region,  where 
spring  the  fountains  of  all  true  power,  as  well  as 
of  all  real  peace  and  solid  joy.  There  is  a 
heathen  fable  of  a  giant  who  received  new 
strength  whenever  he  touched  his  mother  Earth. 
The  fable  reversed,  becomes  for  the  heaven-born 
Christian  a  profound  verity.  Enfeebled  by  con- 
tact with  the  earth,  he  obtains  new  accessions  of 
vigor  only  by  rising,  on  wings  of  faith  and 
prayer,  to  his  native  skies.  Let  me,  then,  strive 
to  know,  by  blessed  experience,  the  meaning  of 
those  words  of  the  prophet ;  — "  They  that  wait 
upon  the  Lord  shall  renew  their  strength ;  they 
shall  mount  up  with  wings,  as  eagles ;  they  shall 
run  and  not  be  weary,  and  they  shall  walk  and 
not  faint" 


niE  EXILE. 

BT    UIS8    FH(EBE    OABET. 

As  one,  who,  wandering  by  that  sea 
Where  the  wilH  heron  may  not  dip, 

Finds  fruit  that  lured  him  temptingly, 
But  turns  to  ashes  on  his  lip,  — 

So,  whatsoever  destiny 

To  my  unwilling  lip  has  prest, 
Has  been  bui;  ashes  unto  me. 

And  life  a  burden  of  unrest. 


And  sometimes  I  have  felt  as  one 
E'er  with  the  elements  at  strife, 

Since  wind  and  wave  have  borne  me  on 
From  one  who  loved  me  more  than  life ; 

One,  in  whose  last  and  long  embrace 
Was  spoken  such  a  world  of  woe ; 

One,  the  sad  beauty  of  whose  face 
Will  haunt  me  wheresoe'er  I  go ! 


THE    EXILE. 


35 


0  waves !  that  heaved  me  to  and  fro, 
O  winds !  that  shook  your  snowy  spray, 

To  bear  me,  o'er  a  track  of  woe, 
From  her  who  holds  my  heart  to-day ; 

In  pity  for  my  bitter  wail. 

Sent  towards  the  fast-receding  strand. 
Could  ye  not  rouse  one  adverse  gale. 

And  drive  me  backward  to  the  land ! 


THE  FORTUNATE  ACCIDENT. 

BT    MRS.    M.    A.    LIVERMORR. 

Never  was  a  marriage  solemnized  under 
happier  auspices  than  that  of  Laura  Clarkson 
and  Henry  Atwood.  They  had  long  been  be- 
trothed, although  the  bride  had  seen  but  eighteen 
summers.  Their  hearts  were  full  of  love  for  one 
another,  and  of  bright  anticipations  of  the  cloud- 
less future  before  them.  They  possessed  riches, 
health,  and  personal  comeliness;  and,  in  their 
undisciplined  and  inexperienced  hearts,  thought 
earth  a  very  Eden.  Their  bridal  was  one  of 
pomp  and  display.  Arrayed  in  satin  and  blonde, 
orange-flowers  and  lace,  the  queenly  bride  won 
the  admiration  of  the  two  or  three  hundred 
guests  assembled  in  her  father's  princely  man- 
sion to  witness  her  nuptials;  while  a  blaze  of 
light  shone  through  the  lofty  and  pictured  apart- 
ments, soft  strains  of  music  stole  out  on  the 
listening  air,  mingled  with  the  musical  laugh  of 
the  young  and  gay,  and  fairy  feet  tripped  lightly 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


31 


through  the  mazy  windings  of  the  dance.  It 
was  an  occasion  of  mirth  and  revelry,  that,  to 
some,  seemed  ill-suited  to  the  solemnities  of  the 
marriage-hour,  when  two  untried  and  inexperi- 
enced beings  take  upon  themselves  the  weightiest 
responsibilities  of  mortal  life. 

The  wedding  ceremonies  over,  a  bridal  tour 
was  performed,  with  all  due  regard  to  sight- 
seeing and  the  demands  of  fashion ;  and  then  the 
young  couple  returned  to  their  city  home,  to 
settle  down  into  the  quietude  of  domestic  life. 
They  were  soon  domiciled  in  their  own  house, 
where  every  convenience,  comfort,  and  luxury  of 
life,  surrounded  them ;  and  now,  bound  to  each 
other  by  the  golden  and  indissoluble  ties  of  wed- 
ded love,  commanding  every  means  of  rational 
enjoyment, — caressed  by  friends,  cherished  in  the 
bosom  of  elegant  and  cultivated  society,  —  what 
could  prevent  the  realization  of  the  dreams  of 
happiness  they  had  pictured,  or  could  mar  the 
almost  perfect  felicity  they  seemed  to  have  at- 
tained ? 

For  a  few  ninths,  all  the  happiness  of  which 
they  had  ever  dreamed  was  theirs.  There  was 
4 


38 


THE  FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


unanimity  in  their  interests,  pursuits  and  enjoy- 
ments ;  a  continual  flow  of  kind  feeling  between 
them;  a  careful  observance  of  the  minute  but 
affectionate  attentions  necessary  to  the  happiness 
of  married  life;  mutual  forbearance  was  exer- 
cised, and  mutual  sacrifices  performed.  The 
love  which  had  drawn  them  together  was  care- 
fully guarded,  lest  any  breath  of  coldness  or 
estrangement  might  blow  upon  it. 

But  they  seemed  to  forget  how  completely  we 
ourselves  shape  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  our  coming 
years,  and  inweave  bright  or  sombre  hues  into 
the  warp  of  life;  and  soon  began,  like  many 
others,  to  "  hew  out  rugged  paths  for  themselves," 
all  the  while  "  accusing  their  fate  of  cruelty."  As 
constant  intercourse  produced  familiarity,  there 
sprang  up  a  neglect  of  the  thousand  nameless 
attentions  necessary  to  keep  bright  the  flame  of 
connubial  love ;  they  became  indifferent  as  to 
pleasing  each  other,  forgetful  of  the  kind  offices 
so  dear  to  the  heart,  and,  at  times,  wearied  of 
each  other's  society,  and  desirous  of  other  com- 
panionship. These  evils  being  uncorrected,  there 
gradually  crept  in  a  series  of  petty  differences 


THE  FORTITNATE  ACCIDENT. 


89 


between  them,  which  led  to  sarcastic  remark, 
to  jeers  and  scoffs  which  were  unpleasant,  to 
bitter  epithets,  mutual  recrimination,  and,  in  the 
end,  to  bitter  self-upbraiding  and  keen  anguish. 
Unfortunately  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Atwood,  both 
were  highly  endued  with  pride ;  and  this  opposed 
a  barrier  to  perfect  reconciliation,  whenever  any 
little  misunderstanding  arose  between  them. 
The  language  of  contrition  and  forgiveness  was 
foreign  to  their  tongues ;  and  hence  their  slight 
differences  were  never  healed  by  mutual  conces- 
sion, nor  was  their  waning  affection  rekindled  by 
asking  and  obtaining  pardon  of  each  other. 

When  once  the  seeds  of  discord  are  sown  be- 
tween two  loving  hearts,  it  is  astonishing  how 
rapidly  they  germinate,  how  rankly  they  flourish, 
and  ho\f  deadly  is  the  fruit  they  bear.  Like  the 
dragon's  teeth  sown  by  Cadmus,  they  spring  up 
an  armed  host,  ready  for  destruction.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Atwood  indulged  in  petty  bickering  and 
strife,  in  almost  unimportant  fault-finding,  in 
irritation  of  feeling  and  manner,  and  thus  pre- 
pared the  way  for  more  serious  differences,  and 
for  weightier   and    more    lasting    contentions. 


4a 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


"Trifles  light  as  air"  were  magnified  into  enor- 
mities ;  momentary  ill-will  was  cherished,  till  it 
became  settled  dislike ;  peevishness  indulged,  till 
it  became  habitual  fretfulness  and  ill-humor; 
retaliatory  measures  pursued,  till  it  became  an 
important  aim  in  the  life  of  each  to  disturb  and 
harass  the  other;  and,  eventually,  these  causes 
combined,  seemed  to  annihilate  the  once  ardent 
love  of  the  young  husband  and  wife,  and  to 
render  their  wedded  life  intolerable. 

Three  years  passed  away,  two  of  which  were 
spent  in  wretchedness,  that  none  dreamed  of  who 
beheld  their  seemingly  happy  and  enviable  lot; 
and  then  their  affairs  came  to  a  crisis.  There 
had  been  sullen  ness,  silence,  and  smothered 
wrath,  on  the  brows  and  in  the  hearts  of  each,  for 
weeks,  and  both  felt  that  this  state  of  things 
could  not  longer  be  borne.  They  were  sitting 
together,  in  the  quiet  of  the  evening ;  the  mild 
light  of  the  shaded  lamp  fell  softly  upon  them 
and  their  differing  employments.  Their  baby- 
daughter  had  been  dismissed  to  her  nurse  and 
hei  bed,  and  was  sleeping  quietly;  they  were 
alone,  unhappy,  supremely  wretched.    The  long, 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


41 


painful  silence  was  broken  by  Mr.  Atwood. 
"Laura,"  he  said,  "we  lead  a  miserable  life 
together."  The  remark  was,  perhaps,  intended 
as  the  prelude  to  a  pacification ;  but  it  was  not 
so  understood,  and  was  received  ungraciously. 
"  It  is  in  our  power  to  lead  a  different  life,"  waa 
the  haughty  and  cold  reply. 

"How?" 

"  By  separation." 

"  Do  you  desire  it  —  prefer  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  far  from  objecting  to  it." 

"  Very  well ;  you  shall  have  your  choice.  We 
will  separate." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  first  favor  I  hav^  received 
at  your  hands  these  two  years ! "  and  the  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Atwood  flashed  defiance  and  indignation 
into  those  of  her  husband. 

The  next  day  witnessed  the  dissolution  of 
their  unhappy  partnership.  Mrs.  Atwood,  with 
her  daughter,  hardly  a  year  old,  returned  to  her 
father's  house,  while  Mr.  Atwood  took  rooms  in 
a  fashionable  hotel,  at  a  distant  part  of  the  city. 
The  world,  to  whom  the  causes  of  this  sundering 

were  inexplicable,  was  astounded  at  the  occur- 

4# 


42 


THE   FORTUNATE  ACCIDENT. 


rence,  and  for  more  than  "  nine  days  "  was  the 
wonder  discussed.  The  troubles  and  dissensions 
of  the  twain  were  but  little  known,  even  in  the 
family  circles  of  each,  and  hence  had  never  been 
publicly  gossiped  abroad.  The  countenances, 
language,  and  movements  of  both  were  submitted 
to  the  closest  scrutiny,  that  some  inkling  of  the 
real  state  of  affairs  might  be  obtained ;  but  both 
husband  and  wife  were  impenetrable,  and  gossip 
was  left  to  blind  guesses  of  the  trouble.  A  shade 
of  sadness  was  observable  on  the  countenance 
of  each ;  there  was  more  reserve,  and  yet  more 
of  pride,  in  the  manners  of  both ;  but  beyond  this 
the  most  penetrating  could  perceive  no  change  in 
the  outward  demeanor  of  either  party.  Mrs. 
Atwood  wholly  gave  up  society,  and  devoted  her- 
self to  her  child,  on  whom  the  restrained  and 
pent-up  tenderness  of  her  woman's  nature  was 
prodigally  lavished ;  while  the  husband  plunged 
into  business,  and  so  absorbed  himself  in  mercan- 
tile pursuits  as  to  have  no  thoughts  for  aught 
else.  Both  were  seen  in  the  sanctuary,  and 
occasionally  in  the  house  of  a  friend ;  but  they 
never  met,  and  never  spoke  of  each  other. 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


43 


And  was  all  this  external  indifference  real? 
and  had  they,  who  once  loved  so  tenderly, 
utterly  quenched  in  their  hearts  the  last  spark 
of  affection  ?  Had  they  succeeded  in  exorcising 
each  other's  memory  from  their  bosoms?  Did 
they  never  revert  tenderly  to  the  halcyon  days 
of  their  early  affection?  Alas!  alas!  there 
came,  at  last,  a  lull  to  the  storms  of  passion  and 
strife  that  had  wrecked  their  peace;  and  then 
memory  and  conscience  became  avenging  furies, 
more  terrible  than  the  mythic  Alecto.  Tears  of 
remorseful  regret  wet  the  pillow  of  the  unhappy 
wife,  who  wore  the  semblance  of  content  by  day, 
as,  in  the  silent,  sleepless  hours  of  the  night,  her 
wronged  heart  cried  out  bitterly  against  the 
injury  she  had  inflicted  on  herself,  and  on  him 
who  was  once  dearer  than  self.  At  times,  the 
agony  of  her  spirit  overwhelmed  her;  and  it 
required  the  aid  of  all  the  pride  she  could  sum- 
mon to  wear  well  the  mask  of  indifference.  The 
ghosts  of  dead  joys  were  forever  haunting  her ; 
the  memory  of  harsh  expressions  and  taunting 
remarks,  which  had  slain  her  peace,  was  forever 
rankling  in  her  bosom ;  and  she  sometimes  longed 


44 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


to  fall  on  her  husband's  neck,  and  contritely  ask 
his  forgiveness  and  the  return  of  his  love.  And 
sometimes,  when  thought  chased  sleep  from  his 
pillow,  there  came  smiling  to  the  bedside  of  the 
husband  the  image  of  his  Laura,  as  she  was  in 
their  happier  days,  loving,  forbearing,  tender,  and 
good ;  and  though  he  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  vision,  and  turned  uneasily  on  his  couch,  yet 
a  sigh  would  come  from  his  burdened  heart,  as 
he  thought  how  different  their  lot  might  have 
been,  had  he  borne  with  her  failings  more 
patiently,  and  extenuated  them  more  fully,  and 
cherished  her  with  more  affection.  He  yearned 
for  the  days  of  bliss  that  were  ended  for  him,  — 
for  the  love  of  wife  and  child,  forever  removed 
from  him ;  —  the  one  too  widely  estranged  ever  to 
be  won ;  the  other,  a  prattling,  smiling  innocent, 
that  would  grow  up  in  ignorance  of  its  father's 
care  and  affection.  But  of  all  this  the  world 
knew  nothing,  nor  did  even  the  most  intimate 
friends  of  their  lives;  pride  so  well  sustained 
them,  in  their  outward  bearing,  that  all  were  con- 
vinced that,  whatever  might  have  separated  them, 
they  would  never  be  united. 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


45 


Years  wearied  on,  and  the  little  Rosalie  had 
attained  her  fifth  year,  when,  without  any  ap- 
parent cause,  while  surrounded  by  affluence  and 
comfort,  the  health  of  Mrs.  Atwood  began  to  fail. 
The  color  forsook  her  cheek,  light  fled  her  eye, 
and  vigor  her  foot-step.  Her  friends  became 
alarmed ;  for,  though  she  complained  of  no  suffer- 
ing, and  never  spoke  of  the  wasting  away  of  her 
life,  which  was  apparent  to  all,  yet  she  sank 
away  almost  as  rapidly  as  a  snow-wreath  in 
spring-time.  By  some,  her  decay  was  attributed 
to  her  nun-like  seclusion  from  society ;  by  others, 
to  her  devotion  to  her  child;  while  yet  others 
were  sure  that  it  was  caused  by  an  insidious 
pulmonary  affection,  that  had  dried  the  hidden 
springs  of  her  existence.  But  the  truth  was  not 
reached  by  any  of  these  dim  guesses ;  none  suc- 
ceeded in  divining  the  wasting  sorrows  that  had 
wrought  such  ravages  in  her  being.  Like  the 
Spartan  youth,  she  was  falling  a  martyr  to  pride ; 
and  while  remorse  and  grief  were  consuming  her 
heart,  she  drew  the  mantle  of  her  pride  more 
closely  about  her,  and  hugged  her  tormentors  to 
her  bosom.    With  the  lapse  of  years,  all  hope  of 


46 


THE    FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


reunion  with  her  husband  had  fled,  if  any  had 
ever  existed;  and,  steeled  by  the  pride  which 
was  her  predominant  characteristic,  and  by  what 
seemed  her  husband's  total  indifference  to  her, 
she  resolved  to  suffer  and  die  in  silence.  But  so 
secretly  and  surely  had  her  physical  powers  been 
attacked  by  the  suffering  within,  that  her  life 
was  fast  failing;  and,  with  grief  and  alarm,  her 
friends  summoned  the  most  eminent  medical 
men  to  her  relief. 

Among  other  remedial  measures,  change  of 
air  and  scenery  was  recommended;  and,  there- 
fore, accompanied  by  a  relative  and  a  servant, 
she  was  removed  to  a  celebrated  watering-place, 
not  far  distant.  The  little  Rosalie  also  made 
one  of  the  party ;  for  the  mother  and  child  were 
inseparable,  even  for  a  few  months.  The  journey 
was  accomplished,  and  the  fresh,  bracing  sea- 
breeze,  with  drives,  baths,  and  occasional  walks, 
soon  partially  renovated  the  health  of  the  invalid. 
Her  thoughts  were  diverted  from  their  one 
gloomy  channel,  and  she  began  to  take  pleasure 
in  the  gay  scene  around  her,  —  the  ever-shifting 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


47 


and  brilliant  panorama  of  a  fashionable  watering- 
place. 

One  beautiful  afternoon,  when  the  sunlight 
was  cresting  with  gold  the  dancing  waters,  when 
health  and  invigoration  came  on  the  wings  of 
the  clear  air,  Mrs.  Atwood  was  lured  forth  by 
the  beauty  and  serenity  of  the  hour ;  and,  taking 
the  hand  of  her  daughter  in  her  own,  she  saun- 
tered forth,  without  other  attendance,  for  a  walk. 
Most  of  the  gay  guests  of  the  place  were  occu- 
pied at  the  time,  —  some  in  an  afternoon  siesta, 
some  in  drives  on  the  distant  beach,  and  others  in 
reading  or  quiet  employment  in-doors,  —  so  that 
her  walk  was  undisturbed,  and  comparatively 
solitary.  Guided  by  the  wishes  of  her  child, 
who  led  the  vray,  and  who  was  in  quest  of  tiny 
shells  she  had  seen  in  a  particular  spot,  they 
^^'alked  on,  till  they  came  to  a  range  of  rocks, 
that,  seamed,  scarrod,  and  riven  as  with  some 
mighty  convulsion  of  nature,  lifted  up  their  bold 
and  rugged  fronts  against  the  angry  waves  of 
ocean,  that  came  dashing  against  their  everlast- 
ing bases,  and  then  recoiling  as  in  affiright  at 
the  flinty  barrier  they  had  met.    This  wild  ledge 


.a-LLA'ii'jiiiit/, 


48 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


sloped  gradually  down,  till  the  rocky  land  lay 
level  with  the  water's  edge,  at  high  tide,  which 
it  now  happened  to  be.  Guiding  Rosalie  by  the 
hand,  Mrs.  Atwood  walke'1  slowly  and  carefully 
down  the  inclined  plane  formed  by  the  sloping 
ledge,  now  stopping  to  watch  the  curling  waves 
break  far  down  beneath  them,  to  listen  to  the 
roar,  or  to  spy  out  the  white  wings  of  the  distant 
vessels ;  to  note  the  approach  of  steamers,  by  the 
wreaths  of  blue  smoke  that  lay  lazily  on  the 
atmosphere  ;  or  to  watch  the  motions  of  a  little 
boat  not  far  distant,  in  which  were  seated  three 
men,  who  seemed  to  be  idly  enjoying  a  sail,  and 
the  novelty  of  skimming  over  the  restless  waters. 
They  came,  at  last,  to  the  water's  level,  nearly 
opposite  the  boat,  which,  a  little  distant,  had  now 
tacked  about  towards  the  usual  landing-place. 
Here  the  little  girl  spied  the  tiny  and  pretty 
shells  she  was  seeking  scattered  around  with 
pebbles  and  stones,  and,  with  a  cry  of  joy,  set  her- 
self to  gathering  them.  Mrs.  Atwood's  attention 
w^s,  for  the  instant,  diverted  from  her  careless 
charge  towards  the  graceful  boat,  that  cleaved  its 
way  through  the  waves  like  a  living  thing,  and 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


49 


was  shooting  towards  the  landing,  when  the 
dancing,  bounding  child  leaped  forward,  in  her 
eagerness,  a  step  too  far,  and,  losing  her  balance, 
was  precipitated  headlong  into  the  water.  The 
mother  darted  forward  to  save  her,  but  too  late ! 
and  as  she  saw  her  earthly  all  disappear  beneath 
the  deep  waves,  she  gave  utterance  to  the  agony 
of  her  mother's  heart  in  a  piercing  cry  of  dis- 
tress, that  rang  out  wildly  on  the  calm  air ;  and 
then  sank  like  yielding  wax  to  the  earth.  The 
whole  occurrence  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant ; 
but  it  had  been  observed  from  the  neighboring 
hotel,  and  crowds  of  people  ran  down  to  the  aid 
of  the  mother  and  the  rescue  of  the  child. 

But  help  was  nearer  at  hand.  The  men  in 
the  boat  had  also  perceived  the  accident,  and 
heard  the  mother's  wild  shriek;  and,  instantly 
veering  their  course,  they  hastened,  with  crowded 
sail,  to  the  scene  of  danger.  As  they  neared  it, 
perceiving  the  child  rise  to  the  surface,  and  that 
the  water  was  comparatively  tranquil,  one  of  the 
men,  with  the  speed  of  thought,  divested  himself 
of  the  more  cumbersome  parts  of  his  clothing, 
and,  plunging  into  the  water,  cleaved  his  way  to 


/ 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


the  drowning  child,  with  a  sinewy  and  courage- 
ous arm.  She  had  again  risen,  and  was  again 
sinking  for  the  last  time,  when  he  reached  her, 
and,  diving,  clutched  her  dress,  and  drawing  her 
towards  him,  lifted  her  face  above  water.  Then 
turning  and  breasting  the  waves  more  slowly  and 
with  exhaustion,  he  swam  towards  the  boat 
advancing  to  meet  him,  when  both  were  aided 
into  it,  and  the  tiny  craft  urged  its  way  tov\rards 
the  shore  with  the  utmost  speed. 

A  large  concourse  of  people,  with  blankets  and 
Testoratives,  awaited  their  arrival ;  the  mother 
■was  already  cared  for ;  and,  conveying  the  child 
to  the  nearest  house,  and  sending  for  a  physician, 
they  now  applied  the  usual  remedies  for  the 
resuscitation  of  the  little  innocent.  The  gentle- 
man who  had  been  mainly  instrumental  in  the 
rescue  of  the  child  bent  over  it  with  womanly 
tenderness,  refusing  all  offers  of  comfortable 
clothing,  and  disdaining  to  seek  rest  for  himself 
while  the  life  of  the  little  one  seemed  precarious. 
Understanding  better  than  any  who  had  as- 
sembled what  was  necessary  to  be  done,  he 
wrapped  the  child  in  warm  blankets,  chafed  its 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


51 


nous, 
d  as- 
e,  he 
sd  its 


hands  and  temples,  sought  to  inflate  its  lungs 
with  his  own  powerful  breathing,  and  succeeded 
in  restoring  signs  of  life  before  the  arrival  of  the 
physician.  And  when  the  little  girl  was  fully 
recovered,  and  able  to  be  conveyed  to  her 
mother's  apartments,  he  resolutely  refused  all 
offers  of  aid,  but,  ordering  a  carriage,  took  her 
in  his  arms  as  tenderly  as  if  she  were  his  own 
child,  and  surrendered  her  only  to  the  maid  in 
her  mother's  dwelling. 

Evening  came,  and  Mrs.  Atwood  awoke  from 
the  last  of  a  series  of  death-like  swoons,  in  which 
she  had  lain  since  the  accident,  to  find  herself  in 
her  own  apartments,  and  her  child  sleeping 
calmly  and  quietly  beside  her.  In  answer  to  her 
inquiries,  the  history  of  her  child's  rescue  was 
made  known  to  her,  as,  also,  the  interest  and 
solicitude  the  stranger  had  manifested  towards  it. 
0,  how  her  heart  warmed  with  gratitude  towards 
the  savior  of  her  darling  Rosalie!  She  must 
see  him,  —  she  must  pour  out  the  fulness  of  her 
thankful  heart  into  his  ear :  she  must  relieve  her 
overladen  spirit  of  its  gratitude !  She  could  not 
be  dissuaded  from  her  hastily  formed  purpose; 


J*  ty'zJJ^  fitOtiAM'^'J^ 


52 


THE   FOBTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


and,  calling  for  her  writing-desk,  weak  and 
excited  as  she  was,  and  late  as  was  the  hour,  she 
indited  a  warm  and  earnest  note  to  the  stranger, 
asking  an  immediate  interview.  The  messenger 
shortly  returned,  with  an  answering  note.  As 
she  almost  expected,  her  request  was  politely  and 
gently  refused.  "  He  had  but  performed  a  simple 
act  of  humanity,"  so  ran  the  reply ;  "  he  had  but 
performed  his  duty.  If  he  had  relieved  a  fello  v 
being  of  suffering,  if  he  had  added  to  another's 
happiness,  it  would  cheer  his  hours  of  loneliness 
to  remember  it,  and  he  asked  no  other  reward." 
But  Mrs.  Atwood's  heart  was  too  much  excited, 
too  full  of  glad  and  thankful  emotions,  to  be  thus 
satisfied,  and  she  wrote  again :     ,,  ,. ... 

"  Mrs.  Atwood  asks  pardon  for  her  importunity,  but 
she  feels  that  it  will  be  impossible  for*  her  to  rest  without 
seeing  the  deliverer  of  her  child  iaoe  to  face,  and  thank- 
ing him  for  the  infinite  obligations  he  has  conferred  upon 
her.  If  it  be  possible,  she  begs  that  her  request  be 
granted.  The  favor  will  add  greatly  to  her  happiness, 
and  is  almost  indispensable  to  her,  in  her  present  feeble 
and  excited  state."       ' 


A  second  time  the  messenger  returned;   but 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


53 


not  alone.  A  servant  announced  the  arrival  of 
the  benefactor  of  the  little  Rosalie,  and  was 
deSi'red  to  show  him  into  Mrs.  Atwood's  parlor. 
Slowly,  and  with  evident  reluctance,  he  ascended 
to  her  room;  the  door  was  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Atwood  rose  to  receive  him.  But  why  did 
she  stand  as  if  rooted  to  the  floor?  Why  did 
her  tongue  become  palsied,  and  the  blo9d  rnsh 
back  to  her  heart  like  a  torrent?  It  was  her 
own  husband  stood  before  her !  For  a  moment 
an  oppressive  and  death-like  silence  reigned  in 
the  room,  while  Mrs.  Atwood  pressed  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  to  still  its  tumultuous  and  violent 
throbbings,  which  almost  suffocated  her.  Mr. 
Atwood  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.       * 

"I  would  have  spared  you  this  interview, 
Laura,"  he  said,  in  a  mild,  sad  voice ;  "  but  you 
woulrl  not  be  refused.  I  am  happy  that  it  was 
in  my  power  to  serve  you  to-day ;  and  I  th^nk 
God  I  was  enabled  to  save  the  life  of  our  child, 
as  dear  to  me  as  to  you.  My  presence  is  painful 
to  you,  as  I  foresaw  it  would  be ;  and,  therefore, 
with  your  permission,  I  will  withdraw.  Good- 
evening."    And,  bowing,  he  turned  to  leave.       ' 


54 


THE   FORTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


But  Mrs.  Atwood  sprang  forward  with  vehe- 
mence, and  clUng  to  him  convulsively.  "  Stay ! 
stay ! "  was  all  she  could  utter ;  and,  trembling 
like  an  aspen,  she  sank  upon  the  sofa,  and  bury- 
ing her  face  in  its  cushions,  wept  violently.  For 
a  moment  Mr.  Atwood  stood  irresolute.  Pride 
and  a^vakened  affection  were  busy  within,  strug- 
gling for  the  mastery.  But  the  long  pent-up, 
defrauded  love  of  his  heart  grew  strongest,  as  he 
looked,  on  his  feeble,  weeping  wife ;  every  othei 
consideration  was  overpowered,  and  he  sat  down 
beside  her.  "  Laura,"  he  said,  tenderly,  and  his 
voice  trembled,  and  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  "  do 
we  not  yet  love  one  another?"  She  made  no 
reply,  but,  lifting  her  head  from  the  cushions, 
buried  her  face  in  his  bosom.  "  Can  we  not  for- 
give one  another,  and  bear  with  each  other  as 
we  never  have  done,  and  be  happy  as  we  used  to 
be  ?  I  have  humbled  myself  to  ask  of  you  for- 
giveness ;  will  you  not  grant  it  ? " 

With  passionate  earnestness,  Mrs.  Atwood 
raised  her  streaming  face  to  her  husband,  and 
burst  forth,  with  vehement  energy,  —  "  No,  no, 
Henry!  don't  ask  my  forgiveness   but  forgive 


THE  FOBTUNATE   ACCIDENT. 


m 


me!  forgive  me!"  and,  clasping  her  hands 
prayerfully,  she  almost  sank  at  his  feet.  "  For- 
give me,  or  I  must  die !  I  have  done  wrong ;  but 
see  how  I  have  expiated  my  wrong ! "  and  she 
put  back  her  hair  from  her  pallid,  sunken  face, 
with  her  thin  hand.  "  I  have  erred  towards  you ; 
but  see  how  I  have  atoned  for  it !  They  say  I 
am  consumptive ;  but  oh,  Henry,  I  am  dying  of 
sorrow !  Forgive  me,  and  love  me,  and  I  shall 
be  again  well  and  happy ! "  r^-^-^Mi<< 

The  softened,  subdued  man  folded  his  wife  to 
his  heart  in  a  long  embrace.  "  My  poor  Laura," 
he  said,  while  tears  rained  from  his  face  upon 
her  cheek  and  brow,  "you  have  been  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning !  If  Heaven  spares 
my  life,  I  will  indeed  atone  for  the  grievous 
wrong  I  have  done  you ! "        * 

But  Mrs.  Atwood's  weakness  and  excitement 
became  so  great  that  it  was  necessary  to  summon 
attendance,  and,  soon  afterwards,  medical  skill. 
For  a  few  weeks  she  tossed  in  the  restless,  burn- 
ing delirium  of  nervous  and  brain  fever:  now 
piteously  imploring  aid  to  save  her  drowning 
daughter ;  now  conjuring  her  husband  to  forgive 


56 


THB   FORTUNATE   ACCmENT. 


her,  and  receive  her  to  his  heart;  sometimes 
bursting  into  frantic  despair,  as  she  fancied  both 
were  lost  to  her,  and  then  as  frantically  abandon- 
ing herself  to  joy,  as  she  believed  them  both  her 
own.  With  prayers,  and  tears,  and  hope,  Mr. 
Atwood  watched  beside  her  bed ,  and  when  she 
was  pronounced  beyond  danger,  his  heart  was 
filled  with  unparalleled  gratitude.  ■^'' '   -''^ 

Slowly  she  returned  agein  to  life  and  health ; 
and  when  the  bloom  of  the  rose  was  again  on 
her  cheek,  and  the  light  of  joy  sparkled  in  her 
eye,  amid  the  congratulations  of  friends,  and  the 
good  wishes  of  acquaintances,  the  reunited 
couple  once  more  set  up  their  Penates,  resolved 
never  again  to  allow  the  bitter  waters  of  strife  to 
quench  the  fires  of  their  rekindled  aiTection. 


,,-^'-  •'■'     ;  ,■  \j!  H;-»i  •-,■". 


-"     ,^> 


-.i^ 


■f.  KiX^^    ,-. 


^^■^.>%- 


J.^ul  -SLi-Ml^^^/M  ■  a.-i^'t: 


THE  WELIMANnC.     I''"^  ^^'^'' 


BT    MBS.    H.    A.    LIVKBMOBB. 


ii 


Close  at  my  feet  runs  the  bright  Willimantic, 

Now  curving  and  winding  along  the  green  lea ; 
Now  tripping  demurely,  now  playfully  antic, 
Now  leaping  and  dancing  in  frolicsome  glee. 
Now  golden  in  sun-Mght, 
Now  silver  in  moon-light, 
It  catcheth  from  beauty,  in  passing,  some  gleam ; 
While  it  floweth  right  onward,  the  fair  Willi- 
mantic,       -  r ' 
Ne^er  lagging,  nor  weary,  the  beautiful  stream. 

Now  bounding  along  by  the  side  of  a  mountain, 

It  tumeth  the  ponderous  wheel  of  a  mill. 
Where  it  catcheth  the  gleam  and  the  foam  of  a 
fountain,  —  * 
Then  through  forests  umbrageous  it  stealeth 
allstiil;  ^^^   '    ^    -  "  ' 

■        Its  step  is  so  noiseless. 
Its  song  is  so  voiceless 


:d4 


1  ■  i 


68 


THE   WILLIMANTIG. 


It  waketh  not  even  the  bird  from  its  dream ;     >»«. 
While  the  trees  that  stand  round  it,  the  bright 
Willimantic, 
Bathe  calmly  their  feet  in  its  soft-flowing  stream. 

Fair  flowers  bend  o'er  it  with  sweetest  caresses ; 
It  smileth  back  fondly  each   blossom's  em- 
brace ;  ^  » - 
The  amorous  zephyr  flits  o'er,  and  professes 
Its  love  with  the  streamlet's  bright,  beautiful 
face; 

But  the  wooing  of  beauty    ^^  . 
Turns  not  from  its  duty,  ^ 

Nor  wins  it  to  stay  in  its  pathway  along; 

So  onward  it  floweth,  the  true  Willimantic, 
Beguiling  its  journey  with  laughter  and  song. 

O  heart !  be  thou  taught  by  this  stream  of  the 
meadow!  ^^      >:    i^.   ,._..»■  i/ 

Let  duty  e'er  guide  thee,  not  pleasure  or  will ; 
Be  thy  way  in  the  sun-light,  or  shadiest  shadow. 

Press  onward  right  bravely,  sing  cheerily  still ! 
Thou  canst  not  be  saddened, 
But  only  be  gladdened, 


THE  VriLLIMANTIO.  . 


69 


•»  t 


When  urging  thy  progress  with  brave  heart  and 
fece;      '  -'""  ^''-   '' 

For  the  wrestling  with  duty  will  give  to  thee 
beauty, 

And  fling  o'er  thy  life-stream  a  luminous  grace. 


*i  *'?•' 


)^J 


iS 


«i;  "<     ,  t,\ 


-f 


f> 


e^        f 


rs.\t^ 


tft-         ! 


I"*     •     i  >1 


'%U 


'i^t  f     /t  "i-vJ- 


Hi 


«-•    V*       J 


«f:fji  ■**?     •jA''**  »^~*   J       t^ * 


v#    to- 


^  .       i. 


'.f    4  , 


Vfi 


■  ^      / 


.,    .3 


•<■«■»-. 


kl 


'■'•>?  V  ■".  'V       '        >■*  I        <3'       V 


t  i.^'ai  '/'*'-^;'i^  '"''t-.'r 


.r  ti:'-' ■Hi;t  is-^-iW 


;;^ 


JOTTINGS  FROM  A  FOREIGN  TOUR. 


r 


%'^m 


BT    BEV.  A.   B.   MUZZET. 


»!.( 


'.A 


July  21,  1843.  —  It  was  yesterday  my 
precious  privilege  to  visit  that  sublime  work  of 
God,  Mount  Vesuvius.  A  party  of  six,  we  left 
our  hotel,  in  Naples,  at  half  past  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  in  a  carriage.  At  three  we  reached 
the  post-house,  where  we  exchanged  our  vehicle 
for  ponies.  Starting  with  them  at  half-past  four, 
we  rode  through  a  lovely  scene,  where  flowers 
and  fruits  regaled  our  senses,  as  Wu  gently 
ascended  the  mountain  for  five  miles.  We  came 
now  to  a  hermitage,  where  the  monks  of  a  certain 
convent  entertain  all  who  ascend  Vesuvius. 
From  this  point  we  continued  our  ride,  until  we 
were  within  half  a  mile  of  the  summit.  At  a 
quarter  before  six  we  stood  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  crater.  The  last  of  our  way,  the  foot  journey, 
was  less  difficult  than  we  had  anticipated,  as  we 
had  each  a  guide,  furnished  with  a  loose  belt,  by 


JOTTINGS   FHOM  A  FOHBIGN  TOXTS. 


61 


clasping  which  in  our  hands,  the  walk  was  greatly 
facilitated.      ''■■"  -  ■■■*■'''   ''■-  '■a""^«'*ft'^^  ''--^y  '■■■i  ■'.  '^a'wc  ,^rt-* 

The  first  impression  produced  by  the  volcano 
was,  to  my  mind,  perfectly  overwhelming.  Its 
detonations  broke  on  the  ear  with  a  deep-toned 
and  solemn  uniformity.  As  far  down  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  we  saw  two  mighty  apertures, 
through  which  issued,  with  alternate  eruptions, 
volumes  of  dense  smoke  and  detached  portions 
of  burning  lava.  The  beauty  of  the  curling 
clouds,  as  they  rose  and  formed  one  broad  canopy 
above,  was  truly  surpassing.    ^        *     ffiV^^ijii^f-vi?, 

My  companions  remained  on  the  edge  of  the 
crater,  with  one  exception ;  and  he,  after  descend- 
ing perhaps  one  half  the  distance,  abandoned  the 
attempt.  But  I  felt  irresistibly  disposed  to  press 
on,  myself,  as  far  down  as  any  previous  traveller 
had  ventured.  Accordingly,  taking  a  guide,  I 
commenced  my  downward  walk.  And  yet,  it 
could  scarcely  be  called  a  walk,  for  I  was  soon 
compelled  to  use  my  hands,  as  well  as  my  feet, 
clinging  to  crag  after  crag,  as  I  leaped  down  the 
precipitous  steeps.  I  soon  came  to  a  spot  where 
smoke  and  a  sulphurous  vapor  poured  gushingly 
6 


62 


JOTTINGS  FROM  A  FOREIGN   TOUR. 


forth.  And  now  each  step  brought  me  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  bottom  of  the  yawning  chasm. 
The  rocks  on  which  I  stepped  were  first  warm, 
then  hot,  until,  at  length,  I  could  employ  my 
hands  no  longer,  except  to  guide  a  staff  among 
the  ledges  and  crevices  that  promised  me  any 
slight  assistance. 

Meantime,  the  sulphuric  smoke  increased  so 
rapidly  that  I  found  it  difficult  to  inhale  the  air. 
At  one  time,  I  thought  this  would  compel  me  to 
return  instantly;  but,  recovering  my  breath,  I 
went  slowly  forward.  And  now  the  sound  of  the 
successive  eruptions  became  almost  deafening. 
The  discharge  of  artillery  does  not  compare 
with  it,  nor  yet  does  the  roll  of  the  distant  thun- 
der. The  reverberations  seemed  constantly  to 
increase,  —  around,  above,  below,  —  peal  upon 
peal.  I  went  onward,  however,  until  I  reached 
a  spot  where  fresh  lava  had  lately  fallen;  and 
this  seemed  the  very  farthest  that  safety  would 
permit  me  to  go.  My  guide  descended  to  the 
very  borders  of  the  cone,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
crater,  from  which  the  red-hot  lava  was  then 
bursting;  but  I  besought  him  in  a  moment  to 


JOTTmOS  FROM   A   FOREIGN   TOUR. 


63 


return.  He  had  watched  the  falling  lava,  he 
said,  formerly,  and  stamped  coins  in  the  pieces 
before  they  cooled.  One  of  these,  which  he  gave 
me,  I  have  now  in  my  possession. 

No  language  can  portray  my  sensations,  as  I 
looked  up  from  this  point.  To  feel  myself  so  far 
below  the  earth's  surface,  was  impressive ;  but  to 
reflect,  also,  that  I  was  standing  in  the  very 
bosom  of  that  tremendous  agent,  which  had 
rushed  forth  so  many  times,  and  might,  even  at 
this  moment,  to  lay  waste  fields,  habitations,  and 
whole  cities,  in  its  awful  course,  was  completely 
overpowering.  If  terror  be  an  element  of  the 
sublime,  then  I  enjoyed,  that  hour,  a  truly 
sublime  prospect.  There  was  a  sense  of  peril; 
and  yet,  so  intense  was  the  interest  of  the  scene, 
that  I  was  bound  to  it  by  a  spell,  and  felt  reluct- 
ant to  retra^^e  my  steps,  and  to  think  I  should 
never  more  stand  within  the  mountain-high 
walls  of  the  renowned  Vesuvius.  *^  • 

The  crater  is  usually  silent,  and  only  emits  a 
dense  smoke.  But  we  were  told  that  detonations 
had  been  heard  for  a  fortnight  before  our  visit. 
These  increase,  at  certain  times,  in  frequency 


64 


JOTTINGS  FROM  A  FOREIGN  TOUR. 


and  power ;  at  other  periods,  both  the  sound  and 
smoke  nearly  cease ;  and  in  this  way  they  give 
warning  of  the  approach  of  a  destructive  eruption. 
Torre  del  Greco,  a  village  at  the  base  of  the 
mountain,  has  been  three  times  buried  beneath 
the  lava.  A  single  edifice  alone,  it  is  said, 
escaped,  in  the  last  eruption.  i    -    •.  . 

We  ascended  on  the  side  which  is  covered 
with  the  lava,  as  its  points  furnish  a  good  foot- 
hold. But  we  came  down  on  the  ashes,  —  these 
yielding  to  our  steps,  and  making  the  descent 
quite  easy.  The  ages  of  the  successive  eruptions 
are  clearly  marked  by  the  coloring  of  the  several 
strata  of  lava,  until  you  come  to  a  point  where  its 
decay  is  productive  of  vegetation. 

Our  descent  afforded  several  magnificent  views. 
There  lay  the  celebrated  Torre  del  Greco ;  there, 
too,  was  Resina,  built  actually  upon  the  city-top 
of  the  deeply-buried  Herculaneum.  And,  richer 
than  all,  our  eyes  rested  on  the  exquisitely 
beautiful  Bay  of  Naples. 

Vesuvius,  on  its  summit,  is  craggy,  suUeh, 
and  barren ;  but  ere  long,  as  you  descend,  you 
come  to  a  few  stunted  vines;  then  follows  a 


JOTTINGS  FROM  A   FORXION  TOUR. 


66 


better/ growth, — the  mulberry,  the  luxuriant 
vine,  and  the  goiden  apricot.  Flowers  of  a 
thousand  hues  and  of  delicious  perfumes  accom- 
pany  the  traveller  down  to  the  base  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

After  leaving  Vesuvius,  wo  visited,  on  our 
way  back,  the  ruins  of  Pompeii.  This  city,  at 
its  first  appearance,  occasioned  dis  ppointment. 
It  looked  bare  and  bald,  as  we  eiik-ied  its  walls. 
But  this  impression  soon  vp  i  'led.  We  sa :/  the 
prison,  where  criminals  were  confined ;  it  was 
below  the  ground,  and  there  still  remained  the 
little  orifice  through  which  the  sentence  was 
made  known  to  the  prisoner.  At  the  uncovering 
of  the  city,  bones  were  found  in  one  of  these 
prisons,  with  chains  attached  to  them.  In  some 
of  the  houses  were  small  niches,  in  which  the 
"household  god-  '  iiad  been  placed.  In  "The 
House  of  the  Fauns  "  is  a  fine  Mosaic  pavement, 
representing  ihe  Nile  and  its  various  animals. 
We  saw,  in  the  house  of  Sallust,  another  very 
rich  pavement.  Near  the  gate  of  the  city  were 
several  tombs;  and  in  one  place  an  oven,  in 
which,  according  to  the  Boman  custom,  the 
6*       ' 


m§  JOTTINGS  FROM  A  FOREIGN  TOUR. 

bodies  of  the  dead  were  burned.    Near  it  was  a 
tomb  containing  several  urns  for  the  ashes. 

Pompeii,  which  was  buried  by  an  eruption  of 
Vesuvius,  A.  D.  79,  was  a  republican  city,  as 
appears  by  an  inscription  discovered  on  a  tablet 
at  its  gate.  Excavations  are  still  going  forward, 
forty  men  being  employed,  while  we  were  there, 
by  the  King  of  Naples.  A  military  guard 
followed  us  at  every  step,  but  I  managed  still  to 
bring  away  several  pieces  of  Mosaic  work, 
pottery,  &c.,  from  the  ruins.  I  took  a  fragment 
from  a  wine-jar,  in  the  house  of  Diomedes.  His 
house  must  have  been  splendid,  judging  from  its 
long  cellar,  through  which  we  walked. 
.  Ten  miles  from  Pompeii,  and  near  the  sea- 
shore, we  found  Herculaneum.  This,  being  less 
remote  from  the  volcano,  was  buried  by  lava  at 
the  same  time  the  former  city  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  ashes  of  Vesuvius.  We  descended  eighty 
feet  into  the  old  theatre,  which  was  very  close, 
damp,  and  gloomy.  Over  this  very  building  we 
rode  along  the  streets  of  the  present  Resina.  A 
very  rich  pavement  was  shown  us  in  a  house 
which  is  wholly  excavated ;  and  in  another  place 


JOTTINGS   FROM  A  FOREIGN  TOUR. 


67 


was  a  prison ;  and,  still  further  on,  an  altar  for 
heathen  sacrifices. 

In  the  museum  at  Naples  are  many  relics, 
taken  from  these  two  cities,  which  make  a  visit 
to  them  much  more  interesting.  I  purchased 
there  some  lentils,  taken  in  a  charred  state  from 
Pompeii.  We  saw  many  fine  paintings  in  fresco, 
a  few  of  which  were  from  the  Temple  of  Isis. 
Here  is  the  statue  of  Agrippina,  who  was  sen- 
tenced to  death  by  her  son,  Nero.  There  were 
also  two  or  three  heads  of  negroes,  and  among 
them  a  fine  bust  of  Scipio  Africanus,  which  indi- 
cated, to  say  the  least,  the  average  talent  of  our 
own  race. 

In  one  of  the  twelve  rooms,  we  saw  a  Roman 
"  Implumentum,"  which  contained  Wjater  that 
had  been  enclosed  in  it  nearly  two  thousand 
years.  There  were  several  fine  specimens  of 
work  in  glass.  Here,  too,  we  witnessed  the  pro- 
cess by  which  the  burnt  papyrus  has  been  un- 
rolled and  deciphered.  We  saw  stamps  used 
for  printing  the  bcker's  name  on  his  loaves. 
How  near  an  approach  was  this  to  the  art  of 
printing !     In  the  gallery  of  paintings  is  a  splen- 


-V'X 


JOTTINGS  FROM  A  FOREIGN  TOUR. 


«?■ 


did  Madonna,  by  Baphael ;  also,  a  fine  "  Danae,*' 
by  Titian ;  both,  of  course,  original  works. 

In  the.  library,  we  were  shown  a  Greek  MS., 
on  papyrus,  which  was  five  hundred  and  sixty 
years  old.  The  jewelry  of  the  wife  of  Diomedes 
was  elegant.  Nor  was  the  useful  wanting ;  for 
nearly  all  our  culinary  conveniences  existed 
before  the  Christian  era,  and  others,  which  must 
be  ranked  among  "  the  lost  arts."  In  the  room 
of  epitaphs,  was  one  representing  a  bird  ascend- 
ing from  the  hand  of  a  Psyche,  giving  evidence 
that  the  soul  was  believed,  by  some  among  the 
Bomans,  to  rise,  on  the  death  of  the  body. 

Thus  have  i  presented  the  reader  with  a  flying 
leaf  from  reminiscences  of  a  tour  whose-  full  im- 
pression my  pen  can  never  record.  Most  happy 
shall  I  be,  if  these  meagre  inklings  can  stir  his 
imagination  to  conceive  what  is,  and  ever  must 
be,  to  so  large  an  extent,  wanting  on  the  written 
page.      ■  .-.-  ,..-,.....   ... 


W^:^W  '      ■  '  "■' .' 

■  -    -i-  .;. 

:^'?i' 

^     .- 

'■'■'fi,^i^^V^.:ti:i-'       ?^S 

■i'^'S:'<:i»   ' 

.;>•}    ;■!■■; 

_,       %J^ff     r^^^J*.-';-^- 

» 


mi 


■rt    ^ 


BaxrauttBuxi 


[L@[FS[&)  i^c/^y^i  m\L\FmY  fij[p(©M  ;Li^. 


^fcrr.f" 


<%ii-j(:,Arit*^''j*'i^'_  ,.  ••  -.i.«»Jvr 


1  V.   .  J 


i*-  V 


"-ijtir*- 


} 


-■■■•  ••T'IS.    ■' 


'■omiQi  &c 


■      ■at    m%^       ■■'.     •";    li-C  S  T   ••  F. 

FK.nBU  of  th<G;  i^'.5nitea*,  swfrtM-inj^'!  and  \ve;uy, 
Fiwa  dioupakbi  df^  <^^         hotm:   upward  to 

Fmm  tJii*  roar  of  the  cx-ean,  tk**  d^  *»;iNE  U'l^ste 


^n'herwf   Trma's  heart  iii£i&  ^i*%%  '•iipjr,,.v;  hi« 


sj[,iiit  iiaii  sttiveru 


-^^z 


Pray^^hat  is  wr«in^;Yrom  the  cmiJ^if  fttki  hc4irt* 
Bir«nthad  ofit  by  lips  that  %:^^%  .  'rer  pra^.'Vll 

B&if  '■'*•  the  4a,Mgei@'^  ^.^sn-  f^4mm«i.l»..j4^airkk> 
His  wcrcy  tH«yfts^;pf*;'lmt  wildly, Mi..Vi#ii^^. 


'■.Hav^  m^^rcv  •'jK.-Ji  us,  di  Lo^'dT'  '.^ 


I;. 


v...:v* 


*■ 
•■ 


tf. 


as*  .'-iJiftiJassiT"' 


F-S. 


i^. 


:;;'r~i,''^'Vfe'*  ."'■'''.■ 


"LORD,  HAVE  MERCY  UPON  US/' 

1  ■ 

BT    KS8.   X.    T.    MVNKOE. 

Prayeb  of  the  penitent,  suffering,  and  weary. 
From  thousands  of  spirits  borne  upward  to 
heaven ; 
From  the  roar  of  the  ocean,  the  desert  waste 
dreary,  &  • 

Where  man's  heart  has  grown  faint,  or  his 
spirit  has  striven. 


•"»■' 


'j^ ' 


'::iis!'v<i  -Yvji, 


Prayer  that  is  wrung  from  the  crushed  and  heart- 
broken,        ^         ^ 
Breathed  out  by  lips  that  have  ne'er  prayed 
before,  ^^^-^  '  ■ -^'^  ■        \  '■» 

Wildly  with  tears  and  with  agony  spoken, 
By  souls  lying  low  at  the  Holy  One's  door. 

Deep  in  the  dungeons  where  criminals  languish, 
Man-doomed,  they  lie  waiting  to  suffer  and  die, 

His  mercy  they  ask  not,  but  wildly,  with  anguish, 
"  liive  mercy  upon  us,  oh  Lord  I "  is  their  cry. 


f 

9 


it 


*«?«: 


I      1 


w 


"LORD,   HAVE  MERCY  UPON  TJS." 


Swift  through  the  city  the  depth-angel  sweepeth ; 

At  the  breath  of  his  coming  man  fadeth  away ; 
Prayeth  the  watcher,  as  sadly  she  weepeth,         « 

"  Have  mercy,  oh  Lord,  and  thy  messenger 


stay 


I" 


. /I'/i,*!;  '  t- ^  I    y,\. 


Feeble  and  low  is  the  voice  of  the  dying,  *-^' 
Closed  are  the  eyes  that  will  open  no  more  ; 

List  to  the  prayer  of  the  pale  one  there  lying,  — 
"Hav6  mercy,  have  mercy,  oh  Lord,  I  im- 

1^         plore!" 


"1X"£iVi 


t.:ir\i'-< 


JMWiki^: 


Have  mercy !  we  ask  it  in  sorrow  and  weeping, 

In  storm  and  in  tempest  we  lift  up  our  cry ;  — 
But  we  need  it  when  pleasure  high  revel  is 

keeping, 
"   When  light  beats  the  heart,  and  tearless  the 

eye. 


■ft   %"■  :\i 


Have  mercy !  in  halls  where  the  bright  wine  is 

flowing,  r  .  - 

'  Man  tastes  the  first  draught  of  temptation  and 
■  K:         sin;  "'''  "■•  "''"^  "  '■  '■' 


"LORD,   HAVE   MEBCY   UPON  VS." 


ll 


What  recks  he  ?  around  him  youth,  beauty,  are 
glowing,— 
He  offers  his  soul  on  the  goblet's  bright  brim ! 


Have  mercy !  the  path  that  the  doomed  one  is 

treading 
Grows  dark  with  the  shadows  of  madness  and 

death;  > 

He  sinks  in  the  snares  that    the    tempter  is 

spreading,         ^   '  -■.-■■'■,■& 

And  in  wild  cries  for  mercy  he  yieldeth  his 
breath! 

■  -,■  .■  .  .    t  --•-  .  '  ■.•■■■       .•■,    ■      'i,<'!^V\- 

f  ■■'■''■,     t    J     '  .-•:  J*         '  '       V-  -  '  .-^^i 

Have  mercy  upon  us !     Thou  heuicst  them  ever. 

The  cries  and  the  pleadings  we  send  to  thy 

throne; -^ ■'■'■'   ■''■"'■--       --■•*-•--    ^  ^^^ 

In  vain  and  unheeded  thy  children  pray  never,  — 
We  ask  thee  for  mercy,  and  mercy  is  shown. 


■:i .--     .    ■  '?-^ 


W''-'''-^.'^' 


.  f  ■    ;  ^1- 


•  • 


t,'.    ;i;'"   ■.:    „5(    .    " 


,,.;»  •''-►ii'^.'s't' ' 


\   ^itr.V/ 


"DOST  THOU  WELL  TO  BE  ANGRY 7" 


BT    HOBAOB    OBEELET. 


,),.|. 


The  most  searching  trial  of  human  virtue  is 
that  presented  by  the  contemplation  of  triumphant 
vice.  Two  lads  have  grown  up,  from  infancy, 
in  the  same  neighborhood ;  have  studied  in  the 
same  schools,  toiled  in  the  same  fields,  shared  in 
the  same  sports,  and  looker!  >ut  on  the  grc.  dim 
ocean  of  coming  time  with  the  same  eager,  pe- 
ful,  sanguine  eyes.  But  manhood  separatrj 
them ;  —  the  one  wanders  off,  in  fierce,  un- 
scRipulous  pursuit  of  fame  and  fortune;  he 
becomes  a  soldier,  a  chieftain,  a  ruler;  and 
returnt  perhaps,  at  forty,  a  man  of  mark  and 
power,  to  be  flattered,  feasted,  and  almost  dei- 
fied; while  the  playmate  and  equal  of  his  child- 
hood, who  has  kept  due  on  in  the  path  of  humble, 
uiie'=  tiring  usefulness  throughout,  lives  unob- 
■eivju  aui  unconsidered,  —  a  farmer,  artisan,  or 
pastor,   in  his  native  hamlet,   with  no  higher 


"DOST  THOU   WELL  TO   BE   ANGRY)" 


73 


earthly  hope  than  to  see  his  children  comfortably 
settled  in  life,  and  then  close  his  eyes  in  peace 
with  all  men,  and  be  borne  to  his  final  rest  amid 
the  respectful  tears  of  the  few  who  intimately 
knew  him.  The  feverish  dreams  of  his  boyhood 
have  long  since  vanished ;  he  had  ceased,  years 
since,  to  look  or  hope  for  more  than  this,  until 
the  return  of  his  more  ambitious  and  adventurous 
playmate,  covered  with  icldt,  and  surrounded  by 
every  outward  symbol  of  success  and  exaltation. 
But  these  stir  within  him  long-buried  thoughts ; 
they  awaken  unwonted  impulses ;  they  make  his 
way  of  life  seem  poor  and  trivial ;  they  provoke 
disparaging  contrasts,  and  suggest  the  ii.quiry, 
"  Why  have  I  achieved  so  little,  while  he  has 
acquired  all?"  The  hardships,  privations,  and 
perils,  of  the  conqueror's  career,  are  all  forgotten, 
with  the  thousands  who,  starting  in  the  race  of 
life  abreast  with  him.,  have  long  since  been  struck 
down,  and  perished  by  the  various  mischances  of 
the  warrior's  course.  The  one  brilliant  success 
is  alone  regarded ;  and  the  rustic  contrasts  with 
this  his  own  uneventful,  undistinguished  life, 
and  half  unconsciously  murmurs,  "Is  this  the 
7 


■  •••'■..V 


,  ♦ 


"DOST  THOU   WELL  TO   BE   ANGRY »" 


reward  of  virtue  ?  I  have  harmed  no  man,  and 
wished  harm  to  none ;  I  have  done  what  little 
good  I  might,  in  my  humble  sphere ;  yet  I  am  no- 
body, while  my  old  schoolmate,  who  has  sought 
advancement  and  personal  advantage,  in  utter 
disregard  of  others'  well-being,  —  who  has  stood 
ready  to  kill  or  be  killed,  in  any  quarrel,  just  or 
unjust,  which  proffered  him  a  chance  for  fame  or 
promotion,  —  has  thereby  rendered  himself  the 
idol  of  the  multitude,  the  cynosure  of  admiring 
eyes.  What  encouragement  do  these  facts  hold 
out  for  perseverance  in  virtue  ? "         '       "^     ' 

Why,  murmuring  friend,  what  do  you  desire  ? 
You  have  virtuously  refrained  from  setting  your 
feet  on  the  necks  of  your  fellows;  and  do  you 
repine  that  they  do  not  cast  themselves  in  the 
dust  before  you,  and  insist  on  being  trampled? 
You  have  declined  exaltation  at  the  expense  of 
your  brethren ;  and  are  you  chagrined  that  they 
do  not  force  it  upon  you?  Was  your  virtue, 
after  all,  but  a  cloak  for  your  ambition  ?  If  not, 
and  you  have  health,  peace,  competence,  security, 
and  are  surrounded  by  those  who  appreciate  and 
esteem  you,  what  would  you  more?     Is  your 


"DOST  THOIT  WELL  TO  BB   ANOBTl' 


75 


Tirtue  so  weak  that  it  needs  the  cheers  of  the 
multitude  to  keep  it  in  countenance?  Will  it 
exhale,  if  no  one  takes  note  of  its  excellence  ? 

The  truth  is,  that  our  current  virtue  lacks  that 
quality  of  Divine  patience  which  is  the  seal  of 
true  nobility  of  soul.  We  shall  never  b6  truly 
qualified  to  pity  an  unlucky  sinner,  until  we 
shall  have  learned  sincerely  and  heartily  to  pity 
a  lucky  one.  Let  a  sea-captain  turn  pirate,  and 
live  a  dozen  years  by  plunder  and  murder,  gorg- 
ing his  sensual  appetites  with  every  conceivable 
indulgence  and  excess, — and  how  few  regard  him 
with  any  feeling  of  compassion !  But  let  him  be 
caught,  convicted,  and  sent  to  the  ^:\s  and, 
at  once,  handkerchiefs  are  lifted,  ir  o  rt  ;  to 
thousands  of  streaming  eyes.  Y'  s'it'v  it  is» 
more  deplorable  to  be  a  pirate  than  •)  '^;  I  r  jcL 
Nay,  if  a  man  were  base  enough  to  be  a  pirate, 
and  there  were  no  other  way  of  checking  his 
depraved  inclination,  he  ought  to  thank  any  one 
who  wauM  hang  him ;  and  those  who  have  most 
regard  for  him  should  unite  in  his  expression  of 
gratitude.  It  is  not  the  termination  of  an  evil 
course,  but  the  persistence  therein,  which  should 
be  contemplated  with  alarm  and  sorrow. 


>. 


78 


"DOST  THOU  WELL  TO  BE  ANGRY l" 


The  shallowness,  the  hoUownesa,  of  our  virtue, 
is  the  main  cause  pf  our  incompetency  to  deal 
adequately  and  satisfactorily  with  the  great 
problem  of  crime  and  the  treatment  of  criminals. 
Throughout  the  civilized  world,  crime  increases 
with  fearful  rapidity.  All  see  this ;  —  the 
thoughtful  are  alarmed  by  it ;  but  none  who  are 
heeded  devise  adequate  remedies.  The  scale  of 
retribution  oscillates  fearfully,  from  age  to  age, 
and  from  country  to  country ; — now  severity,  now 
leniency,  is  the  fashion ;  here  thieves  and  coun- 
terfeiters are  put  to  death,  and  there  assassins, 
nine  times  in  ten,  escape  all  legal  punishment ; 
yet  the  tendency  to  crime  is  in  neither  case 
arrested,  nor  even  diminished.  What  shall  we 
do? 

The  first  requisite  toward  a  more  enlightened 
treatment  of  criminals  is  a  clearer  understanding 
of  the  nature  and  causes  of  crime.  Never,  while 
we  fancy  the  criminal's  career  Caicj  of  enjoyment, 
—  of  delights  into  which  we,  too,  would  gladly 
plunge,  if  we  were  sure  of  escaping  the  penalties 
denounced  against  transgression,  — can  we  do 
anything  effectual  toward  the  reform  of  offenders, 


'T;:Tf7-.YT,V^j;.m-'.-- 


"DOST  THOU  WELL  TO  BE  ANGBY?"    77 


or  even  the  prevention  of  offences.  The  fires  of 
lust  and  depravity  may  be  superficially  covered 
by  denunciation  and  severity ;  but  only  to  bum 
more  intensely  at  the  centre,  and  soon  to  break 
out  in  every  direction.  What  the  criminal  needs 
is  not  to  know  that  crime  and  vice  are  ultimately 
and  terribly  punished;  he  knows  that  already, 
and  has  decided  to  bravv.  the  future  penalty  for 
the  sake  of  the  present  gratification.  What  he 
needs  is  the  removal  from  his  eyes  of  the  delud- 
ing, distorting  films  which  forbid  his  seeing  the 
intrinsic,  inseparable  relation  between  vice  and 
misery,  crime  and  suffering.  Never,  while  there 
shall  seem  to  mingle  one  spice  of  envy  of  his 
enjoyment  with  our  reprehension  of  the  culprit's 
misdeeds,  can  we  exert  any  moral  influence  in 
arresting  his  guilty  course.  The  apostle  of  peni- 
tence and  the  policeman  move  in  radically  differ- 
ent orbits,  and  labor  to  radically  different  ends. 
The  one  makes  converts;  the  other,  convicts. 
If  the  earth  were  thickly  covered  with  policemen, 
there  might  be  fewer  sins  than  at  present,  but  no 
fewer  sinners. 

What  the  moral  world  imminently  needs  is  a 
7# 


78       '    "DOST  THOU   WELL  TC   y"^   ANGEYJ" 


clearer,  more  general  radiation  of  that  Divine 
compassion  which  found  utterance  in  the  gra- 
cious assurance  and  exhortation,  "Neither  do  I 
condemn  thee;  go,  and  sin  no  more."  If  we 
were  but  able  to  look  on  sin  from  the  moral  alti- 
tude of  the  Saviour,  we  should  not  loathe  it  less, 
but  we  should  pity  the  sinner  more.  We  should 
feel  how  fearful  a  load  guilt  is,  and  how  almost 
impossible  is  the  increase  of  that  load  by  the 
superaddition  of  penalties.  Here,  for  instance,  is 
one  who,  impelled  by  passion,  by  lust,  by  avarice, 
or  desperation,  has  imbrued  his  hands  in  the 
blood  of  a  brother.  Have  we  any  true  concep- 
tion of  the  fearful  thing  it  is  to  be  such  a  crimi- 
nal ?  If  we  have,  the  consideration  of  what  ihaU 
be  done  to  him,  —  what  privation  of  life  or 
liberty,  what  infliction  of  suflTering  or  ignominy, 
shall  be  visited  upon  him,  in  consequence  of  his 
crime,  —  will  seem  quite  secondary  and  trivial 
in  comparison.  The  real  question  for  us  will 
be,  "  What  can  we  do  to  awaken  him  to  a  full 
realization  of  his  depravity,  if  he  be  not  yet 
conscious  of  it?  and  by  what  means  can  we  most 
probably,  most  efficiently,  aid  to  cleanse  him  of 


"dost  thou  well  to  be  angry?" 


79 


his  guilt?"  Society  must,  of  course,  look  to  its 
own  security,  and  tranquillity  also,  —  must  shut 
the  culprit  up  in  a  dungeon,  or  even  take  his  life, 
if  it  seem  impracticable  otherwise  to  guard 
against  a  repetition  of  his  crime,  —  but  that  has 
really  nothing  in  common  with  the  idea  of 
punishment,  any  more  than  with  that  of  reform. 
Of  the  three  considerations,  —  public  security, 
criminal  reform,  and  punishment,  —  each  is 
totally  distinct  from,  and  independent  of,  both  the 
others.  They  may  all  be  regarded  together,  or 
a  sad  necessity  may  seem  to  require  the  disre- 
gard of  the  second,  in  stern  obedience  to  the 
urgent  dictates  of  the  first  and  last ;  but  we  may 
imprison  for  life,  or  even  consign  to  instant,  igno- 
minious death,  a  culprit^  without  hr«ting,  or  wish- 
ing to  harm  him.  The  safety  of  the  community 
is  not  merely  before,  but  above,  all  considerations 
of  individual  interest  or  immunity.  A  murderer 
may  be  put  to  death,  in  perfect  consistency  with 
the  law  of  love,  if  it  be  morally  certain  that  so 
only  can  he  be  restrained  from  future  murders ; 
but  so  vnr  y  a  maniac.  It  is  not  the  nature  nor 
the  extent  of  the  intHction,  but  the  spirit  which 


W' 


*'  DOST   THOU   WELL  TO   BE   ANGEY  ? " 


impels  to  it,  that  determines  'is  moral  character, 
and  stamps  it  justifiable  or  malevolent. 

The  criminal  is  hardened  and  confirmed  in  his 
evil  course,  by  a  conviction  that  the  law-abiding 
are  his  enemies,  hating,  and  seeking  to  crush 
him.  To  his  distorted  perception,  it  seems  that 
he  is  engaged  in  a  war,  wherein  the  adverse  host 
has  so  great  a  preponderance  of  strength  and 
means,  that  he  must  resort  to  craft  and  stratagem, 
or  be  instantly  destroyed.  In  this  war,  he  must 
be  Fabius,  because  he  cannot  afford  to  be  Hanni- 
bal. If  he  is  ever  to  be  truly  reformed,  anil  not 
merely  disarmed,  he  must  first  be  made  to  feel 
that  the  righteous  and  loyal  are  the  enemies  of 
his  vices  and  crimes  only,  and  that,  apart  from 
them,  they  regard  hin  with  a  profound  sympathy 
and  sorrow.  He  m/u®t  feel  that  they  seek  to 
arrest  his  evil  course,  no*  merely  to  save  their 
own  goods  from  deprec^ -.tioii  but  also  to  save 
him  from  debasement  and  woe.  He  must  feel 
that,  while  they  resist  him  as  a  felon  and  a 
spoiler,  thev  love  him  as  a  man  and  a  brother. 

The  founuitions  of  any  comprehensive  and 
successful  effort  for  the  abolition  of  crime,  and 


//;P0ST    THOU    WZLh  10   BE    ANGRY?"  81 


the  reformation  f/f  the  criminal,  must  be  laid 
deeply  and  strongly  m  a  spirit  of  sympathy  for 
the  guilty.  Not  unless  we  truly  love  and  pity 
them,  can  we  ever  get  near  enough  to  their 
hearts  to  influence  and  transform  them.  But, 
if  the  great  body  of  the  reputable  and  loyal 
were  profoundly  conscious  that  the  vicious 
deserve  compassion,  rather  than  hatred,  —  that 
they  are  victims  of  depraved  influences,  inter- 
nal and  external,  —  and  that  they  are  but  what 
we,  under  like  circumstances  of  birth,  constitu- 
tion, training,  and  temptation,  might  have  been, 
—  it  need  not,  and  would  not,  be  difficult  to 
win  a  great  portion  of  them  immediately,  and 
nearly  all  ultimately,  to  the  paths  of  pleasant- 
ness and  peace.  One-half  the  efforts  and 
means  now  employed  to  protect  society  against 
the  crimes  of  the  evil-minded,  would,  if  wisely 
employed  in  the  right  spirit,  protect  it  far  more 
efficiently,  by  curing  nine-tenths  of  theni  of  their 
depraved  inclinations.  Such  is  the  Lesson  of 
the  Age ;  —  shall  i*  not  be  heard  eid  heeded  ? 


PERGOLKSI. 

TRANSLATED    BT    BEY.    J.    W.    HAKSON. 

[Giovanni  Battista  Pergolesi  (so  named  from  his  birth- 
place, Pergola,  —  whose  n-al  name  was  Giambattista 
Jesi)  was  one  of  the  greatest  musical  composers  the 
world  ever  saw.  He  flourished  from  1707  to  1739.  He 
was  called  by  his  countrymen  t^he  Raphael  of  music. 
Among  his  remarkable  productions,  his  Stabat  Mater  is 
first.  There  is  a  tradition  that  he  died  on  performing  it 
in  public.  I  have  not  translated  the  far-famed  Stabat, 
as  no  English  can  do  justice  to  the  sublime  beauty  and 
melody  of  the  original.] 

Now  the  high  task  is  completed, 
And  the  upright  master,  seated, 

Hymns  his  praises  to  God's  throne ; 
Heavenward  billowy  music  marches, 
Through  the  dome's  high,  cloistered  arches, 

Blending  song  and  organ-tone. 


Stabat  mater  dolorosa 
Juxta  crucem  lacrymosa, 
Dum  pendebat  filius, 


■^J.^;1■.^■.  (.-»♦/ 


PEBOOLESI. 


83 


Cujus  animam  gementem 

Contristatam  ac  delentem 

Per  transivit  gladius. 

Thoughts  of  the  God-mother's  anguish 
Caused  all  hearts  with  grief  to  languish 

(Hear  the  organ  grandly  swell !) ; 
Yet  each  heart  for  grief  atoning 
Must  for  its  own  guilt  make  moaning, 

As  the  sin-made  tear-drops  well. 

Quis  est  homo,  qui  non  fleret, 
Christi  matrem  si  videret 

In  tan  to  supplicio, 
Quis  non  posset  contristari 
Piam  matrem  contemplari 

Dolentem  cum  filio. 


Sacred  trembling,  holy  rapture. 

Of  the  master's  soul  made  capture,  — 

Death's  strange  yearnings,  earnest,  mild ; 
And  with  heart  that  did  not  falter, 
Looked  he  to  the  mystic  altar 

Of  the  Virgin  and  her  child. 


FEBGOLESI. 

Virgo,  virginum  praeclara, 

Mihi  jam  non  sis  araara,  •    * 

Fac  me  tecum  plangere, 
Fac  ut  fortem  Christi  mortem 
Passionis  ego  sortem 

£t  plagas  recolere. 

Hark !  there  came  sweet  seraph-singing 
From  the  angel-choir  down-ringing ;  — 

Floated  downward  Forms  of  love  ; 
Swiftly  thronged  they  fast  and  faster, 
By  them  homo,  the  mighty  master 

Floated  with  his  song  —  above. 


Fac  me  cruce  custodiri, 
Morte  Christi  pmemuniri, 

Confoveri  gratia ; 
Quando  corpus  morietur, 
Fac  ut  animae  donetur 

Faradisi  gloria. 


/ 


A  BMZILUN  SKETCH. 


H 


BT    0IDDIN08    H.    BALLOU. 

"  Stop  ! "  I  cried,  to  Jos^,  our  guide,  who,  with 
his  heels,  was  endeavoring  to  accelerate  the  pace 
of  the  cross-grained  mule  on  which  he  led  the 
way,  in  advance  of  myself  and  companion. 

"  Stop,  Jose !  No  doubt  the  beast  has  a  taste 
for  the  picturesque,  like  ourselves.  Let  your 
mule  rest  a  few  moments.  Time  enough  before 
us  yet ;  and,  more  than  all  that,  the  prospect 
in  froa  of  us  is  capable  of  moving  even  the  soul 
of  a  ctGi*l:ey.  Truly,  Brazil  is  a  great  country, 
Jos^- ! " 

The  clouded  brow  of  the  guide  instantly 
relaxf  d  its  furrows. 

"  S»  senhor !  Vossa  merce  tern  razao.  Bra&il 
he  muito  bella  terra ! " 

I  had  touched  the  right  chord.  Jose  had  been 
once  more  on  the  point  of  venting  a  vehement 
objurgation  upon  our  inexplicable  propensity  for 
8 


A   BRA7TUAN    SKETCH. 


lingering  by  the  way;  but  his  patriotic  vanity 
responded  to  the  well-directed  speech.  Jos^  sat 
the  very  personification  of  good-humored  resigna- 
tion, while  Colonel  Roscoe  joined  in  my  admira- 
tion of  the  scenery  before  us.  We  were  on  the 
highest  reach  of  the  roa*!,  which,  penetrating  a 
pass  of  the  Serra  R(ichedo,  sweeps  downward 
into  the  valley  of  San  Marcos.  On  every  side 
rose  and  fell  the  luxuriant  growth  of  tropic  vege- 
tation, mantling  the  deep  valley  with  vivid  and 
lovely  tints,  or  rising,  in  fadeless  verdure,  height 
on  height,  to  the  tops  of  the  distant  mountains. 
Among  many  noble  trees,  —  the  slender  palms, 
mocking  the  sky  with  their  graceful  piumes ;  the 
coral-trees,  rich  with  glowing  leJ,  -  the  downy- 
leaved  embeaporbas  most  especially  attracted  the 
gazer's  eye;  while  unnumbered  parasitic  plants 
clung  around  the  trunks,  and  spread  themselves 
over  the  branches  of  supporting  trees,  adorning 
them  with  flowers  of  yellow,  and  deep  scarlet, 
and  purple,  almost  overpowering  the  sense  of 
beauty  by  their  gorgeous  luxuriance.  The  cheer- 
ful notes  of  the  birds,  the  balmy  air,  and  the 
glowing  sun  above,  served  to  harmonize  all  these 


A   BRAZILIAN    SKETCH. 


87 


Startling  cor  s  of  color,  and  to  fuse  the  whole 
landscape  into  one  magnificent  sensation. 

I J  ^ked  long-  and  silently  upon  the  scene,  and, 
at  Itiii  Irawing  from  my  bosom  a  sigh  »:'.' 

«&r"  pleasure,  I  withdrew  my  gaze,   and 

tunicu  )n  my  companion. 

"  Weil,  liiy  dear  colonel,  what  see  you  there 
on  which  your  eyes  fix  with  such  intensity  ?  " 

Looking  at  my  companion  more  closely,  I  per- 
ceived that  his  eyes  were  wet  with  moisture. 
He  pointed  to  a  little  hill  which  rose  from  the 
midst  of  the  valley.  Upon  its  summit  stood  the 
ruins  of  a  church,  or  small  convent,  overgrown 
with  moss  and  parasitic  creepers. 

"Were  you  ever  in  our  English  Cumber- 
land ? "  he  inquired. 

I  shook  my  head. 

" I  was  born  there,"  he  continued ;  —  "in  the 
little  village  of  Paxton.  My  father's  house  was 
at  the  foot  of  a  hill  on  which  stood  the  ruin  of  an 
ancient  church ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  differ- 
ent tint  of  the  landscape  around,  yonder  bit  of 
ruin  comes  over  me,  for  all  the  world,  like  the 
same  spot  that  I  used  to  look  up  to  with  such 


^ff^. 


V.V', 


o. 


o^"*.^ 


¥' 


-^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^ 


VI 


y 


1.0 


1.1 


11.25 


L&|2j8    12.5 

Ujj  ^^    ■■i 

■ii  122    12.2 
S   La    12.0 

Kluu 

^1^ 


6" 


PhotDgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


n  WEST  fAAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)872-4503 


SB 


A  BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


superstitious  awe,  when  a  child.  Ay,  I  know 
one  might  laugh  to  see  me,  an  adventurer  with- 
out home  or  fortune,  giving  way  to  a  sentimental 
recollection.  But  I  tell  you,  friend,  there  is 
something  in  these  old  by-gones  which  will  at 
times  pour  over  the  soul  like  a  flood,  obliterating 
for  the  nonce  the  strife  of  passion,  the  pride  of 
our  honors  (alas !  an  empty  and  bootless  gain !), 
and  even  the  burning  sense  of  disappointed  hope, 
and  the  stings  of  bitter  poverty.  I  have  camped 
with  the  hardened  soldier,  and  the  veteran 
scorched  and  scarred  by  years  of  exposure  and 
battle;  and  though  seldom  touched  by  these 
things,  there  are  moments  when  they  are  more 
vulnerable  than  the  beardless  boy.  Yes,  every 
one  must  play  the  child  at  odd  moments,  and  I 
care  not  to  claim  the  meed  of  stoic  immutability. 
But  let  us  proceed  on  our  way;  for  Jos6  is 
getting  impatient ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  a  good 
supper  and  night's  rest,  at '  mine  inn,'  is  not  of  so 
common  occurrence  in  Brazil  that  we  should  look 
forward  to  the  same  with  indifference." 

My  companion  had  termed  himself  an  ad- 
venturer.   It  was  a  designation,  however,  which 


'  a  ■ 


A  BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


89 


Colonel  Roscoe,  last  of  all  men,  would  have 
allowed  to  be  entertained  in  an  invidious  sense. 
Jealous  of  reputation  and  personal  honor,  even  to 
the  point  of  punctilio,  he  was  in  character  the 
farthest  possible  removed  froAi  the  aspiring  and 
rather  loose-principled  class,  who  are  by  this 
appellation  most  generally  designated  to  English 
ears.  One  of  the  younger  sons  of  a  respectable 
but  impoverished  family,  at  an  early  age  he  left 
his  native  country,  and,  after  various  vicissitudes, 
entered  the  Buenos  Ayrean  service,  where  signal 
bravery,  and  some  valuable  instances  of  "skill  and 
sagacious  conduct,  raised  him,  in  a  short  time,  to 
the  rank  of  colonel.  A  year  or  two  elapsed,  dur- 
ing which  the  jealous  enmity  of  a  poor-spirited 
but  influential  superior  exposed  him  to  such 
slight  and  ingenioas  contumely  as  could  not  be 
endured  by  a  spirit  like  that  of  Roscoe.  The 
latter  resigned  his  commission,  after  endeavoring 
in  vain  to  procure  the  proper  redress,  and  went 
forth  into  the  world  again,  a  poor  and  almost 
friendless  man,  manfully  determined  to  com- 
mence the  world  again  as  hopefully  as  he  might. 
I  had  said  almost  friendless;  but  I  may  be 
8* 


90 


A   BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


wrong ;  for,  with  a  few  real  and  tried  friends,  why 
should  he  mourn  the  crowds  of  "  summer  swal- 
lows," usurpers  of  the  name  which  should  be 
ever  sacred  and  intact?  And  Roscoe  found  a 
few  who  were  ready  to  give  a  hearty  appreciation 
to  his  worth  and  his  sacrifices  in  the  cause  of  the 
ingrates  whose  malice,  worse  than  serpent-like, 
had  turned  its  venom  against  the  welfare  of  a 
brave  brother-in-arms.  ..    . 

Colonel  Roscoe  had  lately  resided  in  Rio ;  and 
happening  to  become  acquainted  with  him  about 
the  time  I  was  starting  on  a  journey  into  the 
interior,  I  gbdly  accepted  his  proposal  to  accom- 
pany me  on  my  ey'ursion.  I  found  him  a 
gentleman,  courteoi;  d  well  accomplished,  but 
occasionally  disposed  to  a  vein  of  misanthropic 
philosophy,  easily  to  be  accounted  for  by  his  too 
oft  unhappy  experiences. 

The  sun  was  gradually  declining,  when, 
descending  the  western  slope  of  the  Serra,  we 
caught  sight  of  the  estalagem,  or  inn,  of  Senhor 
Gervasio,  miles  distant,  at  the  opposite  extreme 
of  the  valley.  The  rays  of  light  glistened  on  the 
roof  as  on  a  mass  of  glittering  gold,  and  Jos^, 


▲   BRAZILIAN  SKETCH. 


91 


smacking  his  lips,  in  anticipation  of  a  dish  of 
feijao^  urged  his  mule  into  a  very  respectable 
degree  of  speed. 

"The  inn,  senhor,  the  inn!"  he  ejaculated. 
"The  bravest  inn  in  all  Brazil.  Good  wine; 
and  such  ycyao.'" 

An  exclamation  from  Roscoe  withdrew  my 
attention  from  the  enthusiastic  Jos^.  As  I  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  my  companion's  finger,  I 
saw  a  black  cloud  rapidly  descending  the  steeps 
of  the  lofty  mountain  on  our  right.  Quickening 
our  steeds,  we  pressed  on,  and,  at  a  turn  in  the 
road,  came  upon  a  group  composed  of  an  oldish- 
looking  cavalier,  and  a  young  lady,  who  might 
be  his  daughter,  as  I  supposed,  together  with  a 
low-looking  fellow,  who  seemed  to  act  in  the 
capacity  of  servant,  or  guide.  The  cavalier  was 
dressed  in  the  antique  garb  which  still  holds 
ground  in  portions  of  the  interior,  and  was  in 
appearance  a  personification  of  my  idea  of  the 
Spanish  hidalgo  of  past  time:  somewhat  stiff 
and  dignified  in  carriage,  and,  doubtless,  priding 
nimself  on  a  pedigree  of  good  length,  and  as 
immaculate  as  it  could  well  be  when  maintained 


'a>i;. 


9Si 


A  BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


amid  the  wilds  of  Brazil.  I  noticed  that  he  bore 
on  the  saddle,  in  front,  a  small  mah(^ny  box, 
toward  which  the  servant,  or  guide  (whichever  he 
might  be),  occasionally  turned  a  look  of  peculiar 
interest. 

The  daughter  was  one  of  the  few  Brazilian 
women  who  could  be  justly  termed  beautiful. 
But  she  would  most  surely  have  merited  the 
appellation:  features  regular  and  delicately 
formed;  the  olive-tinted  complexion,  so  clear 
and  pure;  the  eyes  rich  and  dark,  and  soft 
with  womanly  gentleness.  Roscoe's  features 
lighted  up  at  sight  of  her  lovely  countenance; 
the  shadow  of  melancholy  fled  away ;  and  as  the 
words  of  greeting  were  interchanged,  and  he 
entered  into  an  easy  chat  with  our  companions,  I 
could  not  help  thinking  that  the  colonel,  with  his 
handsome  figure,  and  fine,  soldierly  bearing,  was 
by  no  means  ill-pleasing  in  the  sight  of  Inez,  as  1 
overheard  her  termed  by  the  cavalier.      "'"'' 

The  sun  went  down  while  we  were  yet  a 
couple  of  miles  distant  from  the  inn.  The 
clouds  hung  thick  and  dark  overhead,  and  I 
shouted  to  Jos4  to  hasten,  when,  all  at  once. 


A  BB^ZILIAN   SKETCH. 


93 


through  the  darkness,  pushed  some  half-dozen 
mounted  ruffians,  and  threw  themselves  upon  the 
cavalier. 

"Holy  Mother!  help!  help!"  shouted  the 
senhorita,  in  an  agony  of  fear.  .    0,,^ 

There  came  a  flash  of  lightning,  at  the  instant, 
and  I  saw  Roscoe  ride  bodily  over  one  of  the  ruf- 
fians, —  man,  steed,  and  all,  rolling  over  in  the 
road.  Jose  was  off  on  the  first  alarm.  For  the 
rest,  I  had  the  sangfroid  to  prevent  myself  from 
following  his  example ;  and  coming  pretty  close 
to  one  of  the  villains,  I  managed  to  fire  off  a 
pistol.  My  ideas  being  somewhat  confused  at 
the  time,  I  can  give  no  very  clear  account  of  the 
effect  of  my  valor ;  but,  in  a  second  or  two,  up 
came  Roscoe  to  the  side  of  the  cavalier. 

"Well,  senhor,  the  rascals  have  left  us,  it 
would  seem.  You  are  not  much  hurt,  I  hope ; 
—  and  the  senhorita  ?  " 

"  She  is  safe,  senhor ;  I  give  you  many  thanks 
for  the  timely  Hid  you  rendered  us." 

We  hurried  on  as  rapidly  as  possible,  for  the 
storm  had  burst  upon  us.  On  our  arrival  at  the 
inn,  we  found  the  worthy  Jose  in  full  recital  of 


N 


94 


A   BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


the  attack  made  upon  us  by  a  troop  of  banditti, 
winding  up  with  the  bloody  death  which  we 
must  have  suffered  at  their  hands.  Unfortu- 
nately, our  appearance,  "  in  viva  persona,"  put  a 
stop  to  his  romance  of  the  terrible,  the  finale  of 
which  was  reversed  by  us  into  the  enjoyment  of 
a  hearty  supper  and  some  very  decent  beds.       *''' 

Rising  pretty  early  next  morn,  I  found  the 
guide  attending  to  the  welfare  of  our  equipage.   " 

"  Ah,  Jos^,"  I  said,  —  "  quite  a  narrow'  escape 
we  had,  last  night ! " 

"  Santissim&  Virgem ! "  he  rejoined,  lifting  up 
his  hands  in  a  most  edifying  attempt  at  devout- 
ness.  "  It  is  truly  wonderful  that  we  were  not 
all  murdered,  senhor ! " 

"  But  the  cavalier  and  his  daughter,  —  do  you 
know  who  they  are?"     ^  -       > 

"  Si  senhor !  I  do  know  them.  Don  Pedro  is 
rich ;  and  his  daughter !  —  half  the  young  lords 
in  the  country  are  madly  in  love  with  her.  A 
lucky  man  will  he  be  who  weds  Donna  Inez." 

After  breakfast,  Roscoe  and  myself  prepared  to 
resume  our  joumej'^ ;  but  the  old  don  would  not 
hear  of  the  thing,  and  gave  us  a  pressing  invita- 


A  BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


05 


tion  to  accompany  him  home.  With  little  hesi- 
tation,  we  accepted  the  offer;  and  set  out,  in 
company  with  Don  Pedro  and  his  daughter,  for 
their  chacara^  or  country-house,  situated  among 
the  hills  to  the  northward.       "''v        '.^   *  »>^  • 

It  was  near  noon  when  we  arrived  at  Don 
Pedro's  estate.  After  a  refreshing  ablution,  we 
joined  the  family  at  the  table,  and  partook  of  a 
good  dinner  of  soup,  came  secca  (or  jerked  beef), 
and  feijao,  y&ms,  farinha,  and  a  variety  of  fruits. 
Roscoe,  with  ready  ease,  attuned  himself  to  our 
host,  and  descanted  upon  climates  and  soils,  or 
satisfied  a  rural  inquisitiveness  by  relating  some 
of  the  scenes  in  which  he  himself  had  been  an 
actor.  We  separated  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
siesta ;  but,  after  the  ngc^'  of  the  heat  was  over, 
sallied  forth,  with  Don  Pedro,  to  view  the  estate. 
Evening  came,  and  we  joined  the  merry  circle 
of  old  and  young,  entering  into  the  gay  trifling 
of  the  youngsters  with  a  hearty  zest  that  seemed 
to  carry  us  back  once  more  to  the  years  of  our 
childhood.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  Donna 
Inez  was  particularly  attracted  toward  my  friend 
the  colonel ;  and  as  I  saw  her  dark  eyes  fill  with 


m 


k  MNAMtt.UN  *KNT(*tt. 


mt>rry  liirhtt  nr  *it(Wn  wtih  inom^ntnry  unitrtftRM, 
I  \y\\\\\\\  Imvr  vt^ntuml  my  ivpiMntiuti  lor  unuiioity 
oil  tilt*  AM«*rtiuii  (Imt  I  Imil  dimMivrrtMl  in  htir 
couiitoimiu't*  \\\p  iti^iiN  III'  \\\%\  **  (oiulrr  imNNidii." 

\V«»  Nwrr  to  |mH'f<i»tl  on  «\ir  jouim^y  llm  I'ollow* 
iii(lt  Airt^nooii,  unit  no  |H»ri*uiir(ion  couM  iiiiliirt) 
HtMiHm  to  riMimiii  miumIum'  tliiy.  1,  inynpit',  \\m\ 
iH^rtnin  rrndoim  whioh  iimdo  itio  iu-««rm«  (o  dt^lny  { 
hut  my  ooiii|wiiioii  >\tiM  i>voii  iiioro  nnxioun  to 
IMtH'wil  tlmii  I  xMiM,  1  |M>rt'civtHl  tlio  Rhndow 
Nvliioh  «tol«  owr  tht»  fiion  of  tlio  \W\f  hwm  \v\\m\ 
wu  «)iokti  or  our  ()c|Hir(uM^,  niul  tliin  ntirvmi  to 
coitHnu  mo  in  my  formt^r  co»\joctuiv. 

At  hrt^kr»8t,  Domm  hwt  wnn  nhic^nt;  ami 
xvhil«  >votut«riii|7  wlmt  hiid  In^oomo  of  our  fair 
f\twn%\s  my  ntttrntion  was  nttmctrtl  l>y  tho  bo- 
hiivior  of  th<^  ut'i^ro  f(\t\  who  >vn8  in  wnitinpf. 
8h«  WAS  evidently  full  of  «oino  mnttor  of  import, 
for  ev«ry  now  aiuI  tlicn  alio  put  her  tingfi^r  to  her 
ilip«>  and  nodded  her  head  to>vnrtl  Roscoo ;  and 
Anon  the  wid<!»-ejcpanded  mouth  betokened  the 
sup|W»$sed  delight^  liorn  of  some  forth-coming 
communicAtion*  I  observed  her,  on  the  first 
opportunity^  whispering  in  the  ear  of  the  colonel, 


A   tlNAIIII.IAN   NNNYlill. 


97 


whoMd  linlKlitiiiiiMl  (!iilor  put  ull  my  hftliirnl  curl* 
uMlly  oil  tilt)  iilttrt.  Hut  tiotliiiig  oicurrml  to 
iiinktt  iliNcuvnry  of  tlin  niilijtict  in  liiiitil.  Aftnr 
riHiitjf  rroiit  titlihi,  ItoNcon  diNnpiKjitriKl  lor  n  nhort 
iiinti,  ntid  Hooii  rptuniiii^,  coMiriinricfiil  uinUUiyf 
prn|inrn(ioiiN  ti>  rtiNiuiio  our  joiirimy.  Our  himhI 
old  lioit  wiiN  oviilntitly  diiNiroUN  ol'  our  Uiimnt 
iojoiirn;  but  p^rciiiviii^  tlint  our  ronolutioii  wa» 
iixrd,  iimdn  no  iurllior  ntttjinpt  to  dolnin  um. 

Tlio  ruinily  tiMoinblml  to  ^ivo  im  ft  |Hirtinf( 
Nnluto :  Don  I'odro  iiiid  two  rof(uiNli'(*y(id  ^riuid- 
nophnwN,  with  lti(%  niNo,  wIiono  vUtwU,  Morriowliiit 

pttlfS  joilllMl    to   ttiO   IKUIMivO    UttnriUKMi  of  tiio  ioft 

"  Ad^MtM,  MoiihoroN,"  iniido  nu*  iuNtinctivoly  turn  a 
gliirico  upon  tny  ffdlow-travtdb.'r.  I  nuw  hi« 
countonnnr.n  chnngo;  there  wan  Nirnothing  in  itw 
look  which  I  could  not  fully  undorMtntid,  —  a 
latent  gloom,  •—  nn  nxprc'NNion  of  n^fi^ct  not 
wholly  Huhjru'tod  to  hid  habitual  calmncHiv  of  feat- 
ure. Wu  Imdu  farewell  to  the  old  mansion  and 
its  hoHpituble  ponscHaofH,  whom  we  should,  doubt- 
less, never  greet  again,  and  rode  rapidly  away. 
Thp  road,  curving  on  the  rise,  opened  to  us  a 
view  of  Don  Pedro's  mansion,  with  the  dark 
9 


M 


A  BRAZILUN  BCBTCR. 


eoflfee-bushes  spreading  over  the  declivities  be- 
yond, contrasting  strongly  with  the  gay  green 
of  the  sugar-canes.  Indeed,  the  little  rural 
picture  formed  no  mean  vignette  to  the  gorgeous 
scenery  which  we  were  told  lay  further  to  the 
north,  but  which  must,  to  us,  for  the  present,  at 
least,  remain  an  unseen  gallery  of  beauties.  The 
colonel  and  myself  had  checked  our  steeds  at  the 
spot,  and  I  was  regretting  the  fortune  which  de- 
barred my  further  inroad  in  a  direction  so  promis- 
ing of  enjoyment,  when  my  companion  turned 
abruptly,  and  said,  pointing  to  the  pretty  villa 
beUw, — 

"There,  comrade,  it  was,  that  fancy  for  a 
moment  whispered  me  the  thought  of  a  rural 
life  among  the  hills,  with  love  and  plenty  for  my 
companions,  —  far  from  the  strifes  of  war  and  the 
disappointments  of  ambition.  Alas !  it  was  but 
for  a  moment !  —  the  dream  burst  in  thin  air,  like 
a  boy's  soap-bubble." 

"But  why  should  not  the  dream  become  a 
reality?"  I  asked.  "Methinks  the  fair 
Inez  —  " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  half  soliloquizing;   "did  I 


A  BULZILliM  SKETCH. 


think  thftt  she  could  have  really  loved  me  —  but 
no!  'TwBi  a  meve  girlish  fancy,  —  a  wkim. 
No !  I  will  not  give  up  my  freedom  of  soul,  and 
my  hopes  of  lofty  deed,  for  a  soft  face,  and  the 
companionship  of  a  wax  doll.  Gould  she  indeed 
have  been  what  I  would  have  her  to  be !  —  could 
hers  have  been  the  love  of  the  soul,  instead  of  a 
transient  passion  of  the  fancy !  Well  it  is  over ! 
The  rainbow  is  gone,  and  I  am  the  same  aa 


» 


ever. 

"Do  you  address  yourself  to  your  felloW- 
traveller  in  the  body,  colonel  ? "  I  asked,  "  or  to 
attendant  spirits,  unseen  by  common  eye  ?  If  to 
mey  I  must  confess  myself  at  a  loss  to  read  the 
riddle  of  your  converse." 

Roscoe  hesitated,  —  looking  downward,  as  if 
somewhat  ashamed  of  his  partial  disclosure. 
However,  he  presently  replied,  with  a  frankness 
which  was  but  heightened  by  an  air  of  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  my  dear  fellow,  I  do  not 
mind  making  you  a  bit  of  a  confidant  in  this 
matter,  knowing,  as  I  do,  your  own  somewhat 
fanciful  turn.    To  be  short,  then,  the  fair  Inez 


t 


100 


A  BBAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


sent  to  me  this  mom  a  message,  indicating  the 
proffer  of  her  hand  and  fortune.  "What  think 
you  of  that  ? " 

I  was  almost  dumb  with  surprise,  with  which, 
indeed,  was  mingled  no  small  portion  of  indigna- 
tion. 

"  And  you  —  ? »' 

"  I  understand  what  you  would  say,"  he  added, 
hastily,  —  "  a.  d  I  —  refused  the  offer,  like  a  fool 
as  I  was !  Well  it  may  be  so,  —  it  may  be  so. 
It  is  possible  you  are  right.  But  I  am  ten  years 
her  senior ;  I  am  poor  and  homeless,  and  at  the 
same  time  too  proud  to  seize  upon  such  a  means 
of  recruiting  my  shattered  fortimes.  And,  then, 
how  do  I  know  that  there  is  a  soul,  beneath  those 
comely  features,  worth  the  sacrifice  of  a  true 
man's  heart?  I  tell  you,  friend,  that  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  the  old  Arabian  was 
near  the  right,  when  he  averred  that  women 
had  no  souls.  Pretty  butterflies,  —  the  triflers 
of  a  sunny  hour,  —  for  the  most  part  engaged  in 
gay  gewgaws  and  fantastic  nothings;  born  to 
seduce  men's  thoughts  from  what  is  high  and 
noble ;  bringing  them  down  to  their  own  delusive 


A   BBAZILIAIf  SKETCH. 


101 


shallowness.  There  are  exceptions,  you  say. 
True;  but  how  many?  Not  one  in  a  thousand. 
But  when  such  an  one  does  arise  to  cheer  our 
hearts,  she  shines  upon  us  p.s  the  sun  upon  the 
tempest-tossed  mariner ;  and  when  her  blest  radi- 
ance disappears,  our  life  is  indeed  a  dark  and 
dreary  solitude." 

There  was  a  pathos  in  his  last-spoken  words, 
which  disarmed  the  indignation  I  had  felt  on 
account  of  Roscoe's  ungallant  coldness.  I  recol- 
lected that  in  Ric  I  had  been  told,  by  an  English- 
man of  Roscoe's  acquaintance,  that  the  latter  had 
in  early  youth  lost,  by  death,  one  to  whom  he 
was  most  warmly  attached ;  and  that  the  wound 
thus  inflicted  had  never  entirely  healed.  Never- 
theless, I  could  but  be  offended  somewhat  at  my 
friend's  unreasonable  demurs ;  for,  if  my  judgment 
in  physiognomy  was  good  for  anything.  Donna 
Inez  was  as  good  and  true-hearted  as  she  was 
beautiful.  It  is  tnie  that  her  preference  for  the 
colonel  had  been  signified  in  a  manner  entirely 
new  to  northern  notions  of  propriety.  But  I  was 
aware  that  such  was  a  custom  of  the  interior, 
and  that  a  maiden  was  permitted  thus  to  declare 
9* 


102 


A  9BA»IMJir  ^OBftcn. 


herself  to  a  stranger,  without  any  di^iagsemei^ 
to  the  requirements  of  virgin  modesty.  Certainly, 
nothing  could  be  further  removed  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  forwardness  than  the  retiring  and 
even  timid  demeanor  of  Jne;;.  I  thought  of  all 
this,  and  inwardly  anathematized  Uind  Fortune, 
who  had  made  my  companion,  instead  of  myself, 
the  arbiter  of  so  fair  a  future.  "^ 

"  They  did  right,"  I  said,  "  to  paint  her  wiik 
bandaged  eyes ;  for  has  she  not,  in  all  times,  con- 
ferred her  favors  on  those  unfiUed  to  turn  them 
to  their  proper  advantage  ? "      *  »!:%»i*v    .4?  w  a  rt**. 

On  our  return  to  Rio,  Koscoe  and  myself  took 
chambers  in  the  Rua  Direita.  In  about  a  fort- 
night, when  we  had  become  pretty  well  domicili- 
ated, we  received  the  honor  of  an  invitation  to  an 
evening  party  at  Donna  Francesca  d'Almarez*. 
Don  Ricardo  was  in  some  way  connected  with 
government  matters,  while  his  lady  (a  lively  and 
rather  pretty  woman,  who  had  seen  the  world, 
and  been  at  Paris)  affected  the  reputation  of  a 
patroness  of  belles-lettres,  and  gave  soirees  a  la 
Parisienne. 


Hi.Mt4}^t''i    »    »>:ft'H»F     «f"»> 


••»  »■     *..'^  .lt«nfV  jji 


We  chatted  and  interchanged  ispartees  with 


A.  BMZIUAW  fUTCK. 


im 


certain  of  our  acquaintance,  and  had  the  pleasure 
of  listening  to  some  fashionable  modinhatj  whose 
only  merit  lay  in  the  novelty  and  bold  kregiii- 
larity  of  their  measure.  Presently  Donna  Fmn- 
cesca  approached.  ■  iv  :^sjr*;^*'* 

"My  dear  colonel,"  she  said,  "let  me  intro- 
duce you  and  your  *  fidus  Achates '  to  the  attrac- 
tion of  the  evening;  and  then,  if  your  hearts 
endure  the  trial  scatheless,  I  will  own  that  they 
are  indeed  unconquerable.'*  *,  f';-};:>'»f^r^i',:-^:^,,i^^*m 

Resigning  ourselves  to  the  guidance  of  our 
hostess,  we  approached  a  comer  of  the  apartment 
where  a  small  group  of  damsels  and  gallants 
were  gathered  round  a  lady  playing  on  the  gui- 
tar. The  instrument  was  touched  with  that 
most  perfect  feeling,  the  place  of  which  not  even 
the  highesjt  efforts  of  mere  art  can  supply.  We 
feared  to  advance,  lest  our  presence  might  In^ak 
the  enchantment  of  sound ;  but  Donna  Francesca 
drew  us  forward  till  we  entered  the  charmed 
circle.  The  fair  musician,  whose  countenance 
had  hitherto  been  averted,  turned  at  our  ap- 
jNToach ;  —  Irsz !  —  she  started ;  turned  pale ; 
her  lips  parted,  and  she  seemed  about  to  fall, 


/ 


104 


A  BRAZILIAN  SKETCH. 


when  Roscoe  sprang  to  her  assistance;  but, 
recovering  herself  at  the  instant,  she  repulsed 
him  with  the  gesture  of  a  princess,  and  then, 
with  a  proud  smile,  extending  her  hand,  said, 
mereiv,         tr  ..■'.,/■'■••/•,  >^-'^<i*'V[}zv^:i''-'7^'^ 

"  Boa  noite,  senhor.  Eu  tenho  gosto  de  ver  a 
vossa  merce  segunda  vez"  (Good-even,  senhor; 
I  am  delighted  to  meet  you  again.)      -^    i-.  --». 

Roscoe  gallantly  responded ;  but  I  could  detect 
a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice.  And  here  Donna 
Francesca  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  -^rsYs^  t«^, 

"  What  think  you  of  the  fine  arts  in  Brazil  ?  " 
she  said.  "  Yonder  is  a  picture  by  Fernandez, 
the  best  artist  of  the  country.  But  it  cannot  be 
seen  properly  here.  Gome  and  criticize  it;  I 
will  allow  you  to  return  presently." 

The  picture  was  a  St.  Sebastian,  after  the 
manner  of  the  old  Spanish  school ;  and  very  well 
painted.  I  examined  it  with  a  proper  display  of 
connoisseurship.  {*.;.. 

" Most  excellent !"  I  began ;  "and  —  " 

"  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  said  Donna  Fran- 
cesca, looking  back  at  the  group  we  had  just 
left.    "  By  the  way,  it  seems  that  you  have  met 


A  BRAZILIAN   SKETCH. 


105 


my  *  bella  donna '  before.  Did  you  not  remark 
^e  agitation  she  discovered,  on  perceiving  your 
companion,  the  colonel  ?  And  he,  also.  Really, 
you  must  enlighten  me.  You  know  the  curi- 
osity of  our  sex,  and  surely  will  not  let  me  suffer 

"  Certainly  not ! "  was  my  laughing  reply. 

A  few  words  sufficed  to  relate  the  history  of 
our  acquaintance  with  the  fair  Inez,  not  omitting 
Hoscoe's  rejection  of  the  favorable  opportunity 
placed  before  him.  Donna  Francesca  was  indig* 
nant  at  his  foolish  philosophy,  as  she  termed  it. 

"But  then,"  she  continued,  smiling,  "you 
people  of  the  north  are  so  cold-blooded!  One 
would  think  that  you  never  allowed  yourselves 
if)  love  except  by  premeditation,  and  according  to 
the  rules  laid  down  in  the  best  authors.  But  as 
for  the  affair  in  consideration,  mark  my  words, 
when  I  tell  you  that,  in  less  than  three  months 
from  the  present  date,  you  will  be  summoned  to 
the  marriage  festival  of  this  disconsolate  philoso- 
pher ;  and  if  the  lovely  Inez  do  not  mould  him 
into  one  of  the  most  submissive  of  husbands, 
then  am  I  much  mistaken."       "     *        "  ''. 

"  You  prophesy  boldly,  Donna  Francesca  •  but 


106 


A  BBAZIUASr  SKETCH. 


we  all  know  the  magic  of  beauty  and  woraan'4 
will,"  I  replied,  bowing  low;  "theref(^e  I  ^haU 
not  dare  dispute  your  predictions." 
.  It  was  well  that  I  did  not ;  for  within  ihe  time 
aj^inted,  Colonel  Roscoe  led  Donna  Inez  to  the 
altar.  Not  long  after  their  marriage,  I  learned 
that  he  had  received,  through  a  secret  agent  of 
Buenos  Ayres,  the  o£fer  of  a  generalship  and 
£2000  a  year.  But  the  colonel  had  already 
drank  deep  of  the  bitter  waters  of  ambition ;  and 
if  anything  else  were  wanting  to  determine  him, 
the  entreaties  and  tears  of  Inez  were  sufficient. 
Us  rejected  the  allurements  of  hmor,  and  gave 
hunself  henceforth  to  the  enjoyment  of  domestic 
life.  The  last  week  of  my  sojourn  in  Brazil  was 
mostly  spent  with  Boscoe  and  Donna  Inez,  at 
Botafogo ;  and  if  ever  I  saw  an  embodiment  of 
poetic  felicity^  it  was  at  the  home  of  Colonel 

After  leaving  the  country,  I  received  several 
letters  from  him.  In  his  very  last,  occurred  the 
following  words : 

**  My  presumptuous  ideal  (as  you  were  pleased, 
with  truth,  to  term  it)  is  fully  satisfied.  My 
hkGzisoneeftheexciepfiofis!*^ 


,^.;,'i     SONNET.    '■  :■ 

With  white  wings  spzead,  she  bouaded  o'er  the 
deep, 
Home  from  the  tossings  of  a  stormy  sea, 
Where  waves  had  yawned,  and  winds  howled 
fearAilly;      >       .  , 

And  where  the  barber's  waters  seemed  to  sleep 
In  breezeless  calm,  and  deep,  untroubled  rest, 
She  glided  in,  furling  her  weary  wing, 
Dropping  her  anchor  down,  and,  like  a  living 

Settling  securely  on  the  water's  breast. 
So,  oh  my  God !  from  the  rough  sea  of  life, 
Driven  by  doubt,  and  fear,  and  haggard  care. 
Let  me  my  worn  and  weary  spirit  bear 
Far  from  its  rage,  an4  noise,  and  stormy  strife. 
Into  the  haven  of  thy  sheltering  love. 
And  find  an  anchorage  no  storm  can  move ! 


M*  A.  L* 


. .  jd^J:  tdiitMUIr^ 


<'r  *'k 


THE  HEART-CHAHBER. 


BT   BKY.   HENUT   BAOON. 


m^'^4 


W^: 


1  HATE  a  chamber  in  my  heart, 

A  little  antique  room ;     ^^ ^^  ,^^  ^^^^^ 

Sometimes  't  is  filled  with  golden  light,  — 
There  richest  roses  bloom.    , 


;: V^V!?-^;  -v 


jf.A     Vt'^i'v'^       'S'^^' 


'T  is  hung  around  with  pictures  dear. 
By  Memory's  pencil  drawn ;  — 

Here  is  a  cottage  by  a  brook, 
And  there  a  spreading  lawn. 


^3  i)i 


Here  is  the  church  upon  the  hill, — 
And  see  the  grave-yard  near!     '  "■  ' 

O,  could  you  see  that  small  white  stone, 
You  would  not  chide  my  tear ! 

This  is  a  lovely  moonlight  scene,  — •  '**^ 
'     How  quiet  is  the  lake  ! 
As  tranquil  as  the  infant  soul. 
Ere  yet  the  passions  wake. 


THB  HBART-CHAMBEB.  109 

You  will  not  care  to  look  on  these,— r  : 
I  will  not  lift  the  veil ;  —       „„    si 

But  here  is  one ;  come,  sit  you  down,  f 
And  let  me  tell  the  tale.         ^r<i   .^ 


'':-k^?t'*. 


'm 


A  tomb,  —  a  mourner,  —  city  streets,  — 
The  «  Old  North,"  with  its  chime,  — 

And  over  all,  the  deep  blue  sky ;      .^  ,j^ 
The  summer  is  the  time. 


',.*£  ,  J 


"  How  calm,"  you  say,  "  that  thoughtful 
As  there  he  holds  a  flower ! "       n 

Just  so  the  eye,  the  lip,  the  cheek,  \ 
That  awful  midnight  hour ! 

God  took  the  flrst-bom  of  his  home, 
A  little  graceful  girl,  —     * 

The  image  of  a  loving  thought. 
Carved  out  in  purest  pearl. 

Think  not  he  standest  there  in  grief^    1 
As  though  she  slept  beneath; 
.  I  He  thinks  but  of  the  mortal  robe, 
A  faded  festal  wreath. 
10 


face, 


M. 


110' 


THB  RSABT-CBAMBEB. 


The  wreath  is  faded,  —  yet  that  tim« 

Is  still  to  memory  given ; 
The  tobe  is  dust,  —  the  spirit  liUM 

In  love's  divinest  heaven.  ^ 


O,  if  one  <:h8mber  of  a  heart 
Such  hallowed  things  can  show, 

How  sacred  would  that  heart  become, 
Could  we  its  history  know ! 


'■J'i'i:^',.-;    4i 


'"'■  '^.  ■■ 


:X  ■>''<■■: 


^: 


vr^lj-'-i^ ; 


/.*« 


.4%'.-., 


*J 


,    IMPRESSIONS  OP  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY. 

iT   KIT.   9.    O.   ADAMS. 

^^  ^-  •       ,  .      ..    ■ 

Then,  grateftil,  we  to  them  will  pay 
The  debt  of  flime  we  owe, 
i^  Who  planted  here  the  tree  of  life,  ,<  >^ 

^  Two  hundred  years  ago.  —  Fumt. 

Dm  the  reader  ever  witness  and  enjoy  a  Bi- 
centennial celebration,  such  as  not  a  few  of  our 
F^ew  England  towns  have  indulged  in,  within  the 
last  thirty  years  ?  If  so,  the  thoughts  to  which 
we  here  give  utterance  may  strike  certain  sympa- 
thetic chords  within  him,  somewhat  to  his  edifica- 
tion. If  he  is  not  edified,  however,  will  he  pass 
charitably  on  to  the  next  article  ?  This  one  we 
shall  write  because  we  feel  inspired  to,  having 
been  a  gratified  partaker  of  the  interests  of  the 
occasion  here  noted.  "'t        ^     /^  .  ' 

It  is  the  morning  of  a  day  which  completes 
two  hundred  years  since  the  first  settlement  of 
one  of  our  thriving  little  towns,  not  far  from  the 
world-famed  "Boston,  in  New  England,"  —  a 


112      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENMIAL  DAY. 


morning  long  waited  for  by  many  an  expectant 
soul ;  a  morning  in  strange  contrast  with  certain 
other  mornings,  which  looked  upon  the  ojter'rr 
scene  of  the  coming  of  the  earliest  N<  iV  j^ug> 
landers  here,  when  the  first  ground  was  br  >1:en, 
and  the  first  cheering  strokes  of  t^<  mallet  of 
civilization  were  heard  celling  on  the  river 
shores,  while  the  thick  Ailderness  around  was 
budding  in  its  solitude,  in  the  genial  atmosphere 
of  spring.  Those  mornings  we  can  only  imagine. 
They  were  mornings  of  prayer  and  hope,  of 
anxiety  and  toil,  to  the  fathers  and  mothers  of 
our  pilgrim  town.  They  were  certainly  not  like 
this  morning.       i  .^   ..:.  :,^J'\  y. 

It  is  a  morning  of  Nature's  own,  in  her  light 
and  loveliness ;  such  a  morning  as  we  had  little 
cause  previously  to  hope  for.  Many  of  the  pre- 
ceding days  had  been  cloudy,  dull,  unpropitious ; 
and  late  into  the  :  .<  preceding  this  d^y  of 
days  there  hun  'l'*?»  i  :iUen  paxi  over  us,  and 
ere  the  peep  of  day-light  there  was  the  sound  of 
an  abundance  of  rain.  Dubious,  indeed,  to  the 
expectants  aforesaid,  in  view  of  all  the  prepara- 
tions ;  and  more  especially  to  that  indispensable 


IPBE8S10N8  OF  A  B[«K:ENTBNNLU.  MT.       llX 


com'unation  of  body  and  fOul,  in  reference  to  all 
such    times    and   seasons,   the   *'  Gommitu      of 
Arrangements."    They  h«d  arranged  nearly  b  1 
things    pertaining  to  th«    celebration    but    the 
weather.     That  was  under  a  wiser  directioni  rJ^^dt* 
theirs.     They  could  only  hope  and  trast ;  a  >d 
their  highest  hopes  are  answered.     Never  broke; 
there  from  behind  the  dripping  rain-clouds  a  skv 
of  clearer  blue,  a  sunriMng  of  more  golden  spien 
dor.     The  wind,  for  many  days  past  from  the  cold 
east,  has  veered  round  to  a  soft  south-west,  and 
the  very  air  breathes  out  benedictions.     Such  a 
call  to  joy  is  answered  from  every  habitatbon,  and 
from  every  heart.    The  streets  are  filled  with  life  j 
flags  and  streamers  are  run  skyward,  and  the 
thundering  cannon,  and  rich    full  music-strains,, 
welcome  in  the  day.     Hearts  are  leaping  in  exul- 
tation ;  the  young,  the  old,  th*  staid,  the  volatile^ 
all  have  one  common  feeling  of  satisfaction  and 
delight.  .        .- 

The  day  advances.     Crowds  are  coming  in,  on 

every  hand.     There  is  no  hindrance  to  their 

assembling.     Nature's  invitatior.  is  most  readily 

understood,  and  it  wiU  not  fail  to  bnng  the 

10* 


114      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY. 

multitude.  Civic,  military,  musical,  secular  (for 
the  New  England  pedler  has  looked  out  and 
taken  his  ground  here),  all  are  represented.  At 
ten,  the  procession  comes,  with  its  plumed  escort, 
its  gay  marshals,  its  thrilling  bands  pouring  out 
their  bi-centennial  harmony,  and  making  the  heart 
keep  quicker  time  than  any  feet  that  move  in  this 
great  company.  All  grades  of  honored  ones  are 
here,  —  chief  magistrates,  legislators ;  all  the 
professions,  representatives  of  various  respectable 
institutions.  The  fireman's  glazed  cap  and  red 
shirt,  the  Free-mason's  golden  apron,  the  Odd- 
fellow's  beautiful  regalia,  seem  brighter  and  more 
glowing  for  this  full  sunlight.  The  soberest 
citizen  or  stranger  wears  an  expression  of  wel- 
come on  his  face.  One*  group  seems  to  me  the 
most  attractive  of  all.  It  is  that  of  the  aged  ones 
of  the  town,  seated  together  in  carriages  provided 
for  their  accommodation.  We  cannot  see  them 
thus  again.  They  pass  us  as  the  aged  of  other 
days  passed  away  here  in  the  great  procession  of 
all  the  living,  to  the  greater  congregation  of  the 
dead.  Among  this  group  are  those  whose  young 
hearts  partook  of  the  anxious  thoughts  awakened 


■^id- 


w 


I 


IMPAESSIONS  OF  A  BI-C£NTEIfNUL  DAt.       115 

in  our  revolutionary  struggle;  who  saw  and 
heard  the  strife  on  that  famed  mount  near  by, 
where  the  granite  column  points  to  the  heavens. 
One  is  a  venerable  minister,  long  enjoying  the 
respect  of  his  people  here,  but  now  resting,  in  the 
infirmity  of  age,  from  his  pastoral  labors.  There 
is  also  an  aged  matron,  verging  towards  her 
hundredth  year,  with  eyesight  and  memory  keen, 
and  full  of  recollections  of  the  long  and  wonder- 
ful past.  She  remembers  the  old  times  of  sim- 
plicity, when,  contrary  to  present  fashions,  the 
mothers  and  daughters  wore  their  checked  aprons, 
to  the  village  church,  and  the  good  parson  his 
muff,  in  winter  weather.  She  has  lived  to  note 
another  day,  and  to  mingle  in  other  and  very 
different  scenes.  The  boys  are  in  this  proces- 
sion, as  full  of  the  present  as  any  others  here  to- 
day, though  not  one  of  the  youngest  of  them,  in 
all  probability,  will  look  with  mortal  eyes  on  the  |^s' 
next  centennial  procession  in  these  streets.  But 
the  train  enters  the  field,  and  surrounds  the  rough 
rock,  on  which,  tradition  says,  once  hung  the  • 
church  bell,  and  near  where  the  first  old  church  - 
stood.    On  this  rock,  duly  platformed  and  deco- 


.    rf 


j»i- 


116      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTBNNIAL  DAY. 


rated,  stand  the  orator  and  poet  of  the  day,  both 
worthy  natives  of  the  town.  They  speak  their 
earnest  words  to  listening  and  rapt  auditors; 
they  call  up  holiest  associations;  they  awaken 
emotions  which  words  alone  cannot  utter.  They 
consult  the  dim  past,  brightening  its  outlines, 
and  tilling  them  up  with  happy  creations  and 
realities ;  they  bring  that  past  near  to  the  present ; 
^  they  invoke  Heaven's  light  and  mercy  for  the 
future.  There  seems  but  one  soul  in  all  the 
congregation.  Prayer  goes  up  from  the  ap- 
pointed chaplain  of  the  day,  —  a  prayer  such  as 
the  old  New  England  fathers  would  have  re- 
sponded to,  —  such  as  does  honor  to  the  Puritan 
name.  Select  and  most  appropriate  words  of  the 
Scriptures  are  spoken,  and  hymns  of  praise 
chanted,  in  full  and  swelling  chorus,  on  that 
sacred  ground.  The  benediction  comes,  and 
then  the  movement  of  the  procession  to  the  feast, 
in  the  great  pavilion.  The  tables  are  filled,  and 
so  are  the  mouths  of  the  sanguine  celebration ists 
seated  around  them.  Then  follow  speeches, 
songs,  musical  interludes  from  the  bands ;  toasts 
*     and  sentiments  uttered  in  earnestness,  and  often 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY.       1 17 


'j^\ 


eloquently  responded  to,  —  toasts  and  sentiments 
drank  not  in  bacchanalian  wine,  that  hath  so 
often  been  deemed  a  "  positive  institution  "  at  all 
feasts,  but  in  clear,  cold,  and  sparkling  New 
England  water,  —  a  feature  of  the  festival  mark- 
ing most  emphatically  the  day  in  which  we  live. 
Speech,  toast,  and  song,  are  at  length  cut  off  by 
the  sunset  salute  from  the  deep-throated  cannon 
near  by,  and  the  multitude  adjourn  for  one  hun- 
dred years !  How  we  should  like  to  look  on  that 
adjourned  meeting,  and  see  the  faces,  and  hear 
the  names  called,  and  the  allusions  to  the  past 
made,  and  note  some  of  the  differences  which  a 
century  will  have  effected !  But  we  know  not, 
perhaps,  what  we  are  desiring. 

The  evening  comes;  and  such  an  evening, 
too!  —  so  singularly  in  contrast  with  the  day. 
Dark,  heavy  clouds  set  in  all  around  us,  yet 
without  wind  or  rain ;  so  tliat  when  the  fire-works 
and  illuminations  begin,  the  scene  is  one  of  sur- 
passing attractiveness.  Every  dwelling  seems 
like  a  house  of  burning  gold;  and  arch,  and 
spire,  and  staff,  and  tree,  hung  with  fire,  flash 
out  their  rays  upon  that  night's  thick  darkness. 


118      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  fil-CENTENNIAL  DAY. 


In  the  midst  of  the  village  is  a  glassy  pond,  in 
which  the  illuminations  are  reflected ;  and  in  the 
centre  of  this  beautiful  sheet  of  water  there  floats, 
at  the  close  of  the  evening,  a  raft  of  blazing  wood 
and  tar.  The  fire-works  and  illuminations  present 
a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  wit- 
nessed it.  There  may  be  more  light  on  the  eve- 
ning of  that  adjourned  meeting  already  alluded 
to ;  but  there  will  be  no  more  of  beauty,  unless 
the  aurora  borealis  itself  comes  out  in  the  scene, 
—  no  more  magnificent  and  imposing  contrast 
of  darkness  and  of  fire.  It  would  seem,  too,  that 
such  a  back-ground  as  that  given  us  this  night  is 
only  spread  out  about  once  in  a  century.  So 
the  day  closes  in  social  mirth,  and  music,  and 
song;  and  ere  midnight  comes,  that  loud  and 
prolonged  voice  of  celebration  is  hushed,  to  be 
awakened  by  these  multitudes  no  more. 

And  how  shall  the  day  be  remembered  by 
them  ?  We  need  not  ask  how  many  will  bear  it 
in  mind  chiefly  as  a  day  of  light,  and  music, 
and  noise,  and  merrymaking,  from  its  early  dawn 
to  the  last  twinkling  of  its  illuminations  in  the 
midst  of  that  dark  drapery  which  the  heavens 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY.       119 


hung  down  around  us.  They  will  think  of  the 
day,  jather  than  of  the  times  and  events  it  was 
used  to  proclaim  and  to  honor;  for  thus,  and 
thus  only,  do  many  celebrate  these  remarkable 
days,  keep  these  extraordinary  festivals.  But 
not  in  this  direction  wholly  would  we  have  our 
musings  run.  While,  wearied  with  excess  of 
enjoyment,  the  throngs  separate  and  go  to  their 
rest,  with  the  living  realities  of  the  day  floating 
most  vividly  in  their  imaginations,  and  following 
them  into  their  deepest  slumbers,  let  us  improve 
the  occasion,  ere  the  day  is  utterly  gone,  to  note 
its  teachings.  They  may  not  be  so  near  us 
again.  We  may  not  soon  be  in  so  favorable  a 
frame  of  mind  to  listen  and  give  heed  to  them. 

How  emphatically  speaks  to  us,  this  hour,  the 
great  truth  of  human  change!  This  always 
comes  to  us  when  any  such  contrasts  are  called 
up  of  the  present  with  the  long  or  distant  past, 
in  which  we  read  the  frailty  of  man,  with  all  his 
boasted  greatness,  and  the  enduring  nature  of 
that  vast  government,  which,  with  undisturbed 
majesty,  moves  continually  on,  under  the  guid- 
ance of  Him  whose  ways  are  everlasting.    At 


120      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  BAY, 


whatever  poiot  we  take  our  stand ;  at  whatever 
observance  of  time,  —  be  it  annual,  centennial, 
or  at  the  ending  of  the  thousand  years  to  man, 
which  are  with  God  but  as  one  day,  —  we  be- 
hold, as  we  survey  the  past,  the  solemn  and 
striking  manifestations  of  steady,  inevitable 
change,  in  all  that  pertains  to  mortal  being  and 
to  mortal  destiny.  We  ask  for  ancient  Egypt, 
in  her  greatness  and  splendor;  for  Babylon, 
Nineveh,  Palmyra,  Rome,  Carthage.  Their 
greatness  and  splendor  were  the  admiration  of 
the  world.  But  the  ocean  waves  of  time  have 
swept  them  away;  and  either  desolation  reigns 
on  the  very  ground  of  their  high  places,  or  other 
voices  there  speak,  and  other  hearts  beat  with 
human  emotions. 

On  our  own  shores,  what  changes  have  beeri 
wrought  by  time!  As  the  historic  panorama 
passes  before  us,  we  see  the  wilderness  inhabited 
by  the  red  men,  its  barbarian  proprietors,  and 
their  astonishment  at  the  approach  of  the  heralds 
of  civilization,  and  their  decline  before  them 
towards  the  setting  sun,  where,  on  the  Pacific 
shore,  they  are  again  met  with  new  multitudes 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY.       121 

of  the  race  who  have  outgrown  them.  And  now, 
where  the  council-fire  gleamed,  and  the  chase 
was  followed,  and  the  Indian  war-whoop  rang, 
fanes  and  monuments  arise,  and  the  hum  of 
industry  goes  up  from  morn  till  evening,  and  the 
smoking  steamer  ploughs  its  way  through  the 
mighty  rivers,  and  the  thundering  train  sends  its 
echoes  through  valleys  and  over  thousand  hills, 
in  every  section  of  our  glorious  land. 

And  what  change  this  new  nation  has  seen ! 
How  difiTerent  the  interests,  pursuits,  the  eter- 
prise  and  means  of  enterprise,  now,  from  what 
they  were  one  century,  or  half  a  century,  since ! 
At  the  first  settlement  of  our  own  neighborhood, 
the  limits  of  population  seemed  to  be  set  by  these 
hills  near  us,  and  stretching  away  into  our 
neighboring  towns.  But  they  could  no  more 
stay  this  tide  than  could  sands  the  running  of 
the  stream  over  them,  or  pebbles  the  washing  of 
the  sea-waves  upon  the  shore.  It  breaks  over 
every  barrier,  and  will  roll  its  floods  through  the 
deserts,  and  cover  the  whole  land.  And  who 
shall  calculate  the  future?  Our  population 
doubling  in  a  little  more  than  twenty  years  —  a 
11 


122      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-G£NTENIfIAL  DAT. 

population  now  in  the  neighborhood  of  twenty 
millions ;  in  sixteen  years  from  this,  to  be  thirty- 
six  millions;  in  twenty-three  years  from  that, 
seventy-two  millions ;  in  less  than  one  hundred 
years,  two  hundred  and  eighty-eight  millions  of 
our  race!  We  are  lost  in  the  calculation  of 
changes,  as  we  are  amazed  in  that  of  numbers. 
And  in  the  midst  of  such  changes  shall  we  pass 
away.  We  speak  the  experience  of  human 
nature,  and  memory  tells  us  it  is  true.  But  yes- 
terday, our  ancestors  were  walking  forth,  in  the 
vigor  of  life  and  youth.  Now,  they  are  beneath 
the  dust ;  and  we  seek  out  their  graves,  to  wonder 
why  they  passed  so  soon  away,  and  to  read  our 
own  destiny.  So  shall  we  lie  down,  to  wake  no 
more  to  mortal  being  here,  but  to  leave  our 
homes  to  those  who  come  after  us,  and  our  tombs 
to  their  protection  and  blessing. 

As  we  reflect  on  these  earthly  mutations,  it  is 
good  —  and  how  good  no  human  language  can 
describe  —  to  think  that  there  is  One  to  whom 
all  this  change  is  but  an  instrumentality,  in  his 
own  hand,  of  mercy  and  righteousness  with  his 
children;   that  he  is  "without  variableness  or 


'■(T 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAT.       123 


■hadow  of  turning ;"  and  will  ever  remain,  as  he 
was  in  the  beginning,  their  Helper,  Preserver, 
and  Friend.  How  such  truth  tends  to  give  us 
strength  of  vision,  and  stability  of  purpose,  and 
faith,  and  hope,  and  gratitude,  and  love,  as  we 
•  gaze  back  upon  the  wondrous  past,  or  seek  to 
penetrate  the  yet  undeveloped  future!  Man  is 
bom,  and  lives,  and  dies,  and  is  buried;  and, 
though  forgotten  by  his  fellow-men,  yet  is  he  not 
by  Him  who  called  him  forth  from  naught,  to  be, 
to  suffer,  and  enjoy.  No  ages  can  be  long 
enough  to  obliterate  him  from  the  Divine 
memory,  —  that  mind  to  which  the  present, 
past,  or  future,  is  eternal  now.  Here  is  great 
light,  as  these  shadows  of  human  mutation  pass 
over  us.  Thanks  for  it !  —  thanks  to  its  inex- 
haustible Source ! 

Another  thought,  now  pressing  upon  us,  is 
that  of  our  indebtedness  to  the  past,  —  to  its 
agencies,  powers,  and  accomplishments.  Often 
are  we  chargeable  with  the  sin  of  forgetfulness,  in 
this  respect.  We  do  not  properly  regard  our 
dependence  on  what  the  past  has  achieved  for  us 
in  the  mental  and  moral  conceptions,  in  the  wills 


124      IMPBESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CBNTENIVIAL  DAT. 


and  deeds,  of  those  who  have  gone  before.  We 
too  frequently  and  generally  think  and  act,  in 
reference  to  all  our  gifts  and  advantages,  as 
though  we  were  the  first  finders  of  them  all; 
that,  although  we  were  to  hand  them  down  to 
others,  we  were  not  obliged  to  believe  or  under- 
stand that  others  had  hnnded  them  down  to  us. 
Like  the  reckless  spendt;hrift  of  an  estate  left 
him  by  his  father,  .vho,  in  his  eagerness  to  enjoy 
the  present  gratifications  to  which  this  wealth 
may  minister,  forgets  the  hard  toilings  and  close 
calculations  of  his  parent  to  accumulate  this  very 
fortune,  so  ar*^  we,  too  often,  in  our  lavish  ex- 
penditure of  the  many  temporal  means,  and  dis- 
regard of  the  improvement  of  the  moral  means, 
left  us  by  our  fathers,  liable  to  forget  their  toil- 
ings and  their  prayers  for  the  good  of  their 
descendants.  This  should  not  be.  Shame  on 
the  son  who  will  forget  his  parentage!  on  the 
child  who  will  fail  to  honor  the  beings  who  gave 
him  life!  on  the  people  who  are  too  stupid,  or 
selfish,  or  indifferent,  or  worldly,  to  pause,  at 
times,  in  the  midst  of  life's  way,  to  ask  what 
other  hands  have  contributed  to  the  means  now 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY.       125 


enabling  them  to  keep  this  way  in  strength,  and 
safety,  and  peace !  Such  a  time  has  just  come. 
Let  us  not  be  heedless  as  it  passes,  but  let  us 
learn  its  lessons  well.  We  are  debtors  to  the 
past,  —  debtors  to  the  generations  who  have  gone 
before.  They  lived  and  \iTought  for  us,  while 
as  yet  we  were  not.  Humble  men  and  women, 
whose  faces  we  should  not  know,  had  they  been 
present  with  us  to-day,  —  whose  voices  we  should 
not  have  recognized,  had  they  been  raised  in  our 
hearing, — whose  places  were  filled,  and  well  filled, 
according  to  the  bestowments  of  a  good  God  upon 
them,  —  have  lived,  and  made  effort,  and  secured 
blessings  for  us,  to  whom  we  owe  everlasting 
obligations,  and  for  whose  works,  amidst  all  our 
onward  movements,  and  new  lights  and  acquire- 
ments, we  may  thank  God  evermore. 

In  our  intellectual  and  moral  strifes  and  attain- 
ments, this  same  kind  of  error,  against  which  we 
arc  speaking,  is  manifest.  We  are  too  prone,  at 
times,  especially  in  this  day  of  invention,  and 
discovery,  and  progress,  and  improvement  on  the 
past,  to  undervalue  what  this  same  past  has 
actually  done.  The  real  gold  of  our  ancestors 
ll=i<= 


IS6      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY. 


too  often  loses  its  value,  in  comparison  with  our 
more  recent  coin.  We  are  apt  to  think  that  we 
have  just  found  out  a  way,  that  was  cast  up,  in 
part,  by  others  of  the  past,  who  have  really  aided 
us  in  rendering  it  more  available  and  nearer  per- 
fect. Some  of  our  reformatory  radicalism  may 
learn  a  lesson  here.  While  it  would  not  carry 
the  stone  in  one  end  of  the  bag  to  mill,  as  our 
ancestors  did,  instead  of  dividing  the  portion  of 
grain  therein,  it  need  not  forget  that  there  was 
actual  grain  carried  by  these  old  fathers,  and 
that,  notwithstanding  this  want  of  philosophy  in 
conveying  it,  they  understood  the  use  of  the 
thing  itself  quite  as  well  as  we.  Well  is  it  to 
remember,  then,  our  indebtedness  to  the  past; 
our  obligations  to  those  who  have,  by  their  pre- 
paratory deeds,  given  us  advantages  and  bless- 
ings which,  without  them,  we  could  not  have 
known.  We  should  have  the  right  reverence  for 
that  which  has  been,  that  we  do  justice  to  noble 
virtues,  and  secure  reverence  for  ourselves  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  may  succeed  us  in  the  work 
of  life.  For  with  what  measure  we  mete,  in  our 
memories  of  the  past,  and  in  our  justice  to  what 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAT.       127 

it  has  efTected,  it  shall  be  measured  to  us  again. 
Others  will  sit  in  judgment  on  our  characters  and 
deeds ;  and  as  we  would  that  they  should  give  us 
our  just  dues,  let  us  see  that  this  same  dealing  in 
the  right  is  observed  in  our  judgment  concerning 
those  who  have  preceded  us. 

But  then,  while  we  would  speak  thus  rever- 
ently of  the  claims  of  the  past  ujwn  us,  and  of 
our  duty  to  our  ancestors,  we  would  by  no  means 
disregard  another  consideration,  suggested  by  the 
occasion  just  now  passed ;  and  that  is,  the  duty 
of  rightly  discriminating  between  the  past  and 
the  present,  that  we  may  the  better  learn  our 
greater  work  than  that  which  devolved  upon  our 
fathers.  There  is  a  tendency  and  habit,  in  some 
men,  to  see  greater  good  in  the  past  than  they 
see  now ;  —  times,  then,  such  as  can  never  be 
realized  again ;  people,  then,  who  have  not  true 
representatives  at  the  present  hour.  Sidney 
Smith,  in  some  of  his  writings,  speaks  most 
pointedly  of  this  error :  —  "  Our  wise  ancestors, 
—  the  wi..  dom  of  our  ancestors,  —  the  wisdom 
of  ages,  —  venerable  antiquity,  —  wisdom  of  old 
times.      All   this  cant  about  our  ancestors   is 


M 


128      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY. 


merely  an  abuse  of  words,  by  transferring  phrases 
of  true  contemporary  men  to  succeeding  ages. 
Whereas,  of  living  men,  the  oldest  has,  ccsteris 
parilnis,  the  most  experience ;  of  generations,  the 
oldest  has,  cateris  paribus^  the  least  experience. 
We  are  not  disputing  with  our  ancestors  the 
palm  of  talent,  in  which  they  may  or  may  not  be 
our  superiors,  but  the  palm  of  experience,  in 
which  it  is  utterly  impossible  they  can  be  our 
superiors.  We  cannot,  of  course,  be  supposed  to 
maintain  that  our  ancestors  wanted  wisdom,  or 
that  they  were  necessarily  mistaken  in  their 
institutions,  because  their  means  of  information 
were  more  limited  than  ours.  But  we  do  confi- 
dently maintain,  that  when  we  find  it  expedient 
to  change  anything  which  our  ancestors  have 
enacted,  we  are  the  experienced  persons,  and  not 
they.  The  quantity  of  talent  is  always  varying 
in  any  great  nation.  To  say  that  we  are  more 
or  less  able  than  our  ancestors,  is  an  assertion 
that  requires  to  be  explained.  If  you  say  that 
our  ancestors  were  wiser  than  we,  mention  your 
date  and  your  year.  If  the  splendor  of  names  is 
equal,  are  the  circumstances  the  same  ?    If  the 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY.       129 


circumstances  are  the  same,  we  have  a  superi- 
ority of  experience,  of  which  the  diflference 
between  the  two  periods  is  the  measure.  It  is 
necessary  to  insist  upon  this." 

This  is  just  reasoning.  Though  we  are  in- 
debted to  the  past,  this  fact  need  not  render  us 
blind  to  the  wants,  the  deficiencies,  the  failings, 
of  this  past,  and  to  our  own  positive  advantages 
above  it,  in  many  respects.  At  least,  we  should 
be  careful  that,  in  our  veneration  for  our  fathers 
and  mothers,  we  do  not  venerate  their  errors,  as 
well  as  their  virtues,  —  that  we  do  not  keep  their 
prejudices  and  wrong  habits  among  the  remem- 
brances of  their  good  fame.  We  should  be  care- 
ful that  the  cry  of  innovation  do  not  keep  us 
back  from  improving  on  many  of  the  very  deeds 
which  our  ancestors  have  done,  and  of  correcting 
certain  wrong  habits  into  which  they  may  have 
fallen.  Errors  in  social  life,  religious  supersti- 
tions and  opinions,  political  prejudices,  are  not  to 
be  held  and  honored  by  us  because  they  were 
held  and  honored  by  them.  What  if  the  opinion, 
prejudice,  or  habit,  did  belong  to  them  ?  So  did 
certain    uncomely  garments    and    inconvenient 


190      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNUL  DAT. 


modes  of  dress.  We  should  laugh  at  ourselves 
for  thinking  to  adopt  these  at  the  present  hour. 
No,  no!  such  respect,  such  attraction  to  the 
wrong  of  the  past,  we  need  not  possess.  We 
must  live,  see,  note,  judge,  adopt,  or  discard,  for 
ourselves.  What  of  the  past  we  find  wrong,  that 
must  we  declare  wrong,  that  those  who  succeed 
us  may  have  the  benefit  of  our  experience,  de- 
cision, and  example.  No  squeamishness,  no  fal- 
tering, because  our  ancestors,  who  are  dead,  may 
be  dishonored  in  our  new  opinions  or  practices. 
If,  in  their  spiritual  estate,  they  have  higher  dis- 
cernment than  we,  and  know  of  our  improvement 
on  what  they  have  done,  they  will  give  praise  to 
Ood  that  his  truth  has  such  advancement  and 
obedience  in  their  children.  "New  occasions 
seek  new  duties ;"  new  experiences  bring  us  into 
loftier  regions  of  observation.  We  are  standing 
higher  up,  in  not  a  few  respects,  than  our  fathers 
stood.  Only  let  us  see  to  it  that  we  use  our  eye- 
sight as  well  as  they  used  theirs,  and  make  as 
good  a  report  to  posterity  as  they,  with  their 
means  and  opportunities,  have  sent  down  to  us. 
One  other  consideration  let  us  just  name,— 


..  ■^.■■:\v^;.y-v-^-;i7' 


that  is,  the  endurance  of  whatsoever  is  good  and 
true,  through  all  the  ages  of  human  history. 
Material  substances  may  change  and  dissolve; 
the  heavens  may  "  wax  old  as  doth  a  garment ;" 
but  that  which  is  spiritual,  like  God  himself,  shall 
not  thus  give  signs  of  decay.  Mind  partakes  of 
the  eternity  of  its  source.  Thoughts,  truths, 
emotions,  once  given  to  the  world,  are  not  lost,  — 
cannot  be.  They  exist  and  perform  their  duty,  a 
thousand  years  after  their  origin,  as  they  did  on 
the  day  of  their  birth.  They  pulsate  through 
the  hearts  of  all  succeeding  generations.  All 
that  is  noble  in  the  world's  past  history,  the  influ- 
ences of  the  great  and  the  good,  somehow  endure. 
They  outlive  the  changes  of  geographical  names, 
the  shifting  boundaries  of  earthly  dominion ;  'they 
are  unaffected  by  the  advancing  or  receding 
waves  of  population.  History  is  the  past  experi- 
ence of  our  nature ;  and  this,  like  the  life  of  the 
individual,  consists  in  ideas  and  sentiments, 
deeds  and  passions,  truths  and  errors.  We  need 
to  have  saved  for  us  the  good  thoughts  of  the 
past ;  and  we  have  reason  for  thanksgiving  that 
so  many  of  them  survive,  for  our  instruction,  and 


£ .  ^'  O."^  I  kiAl  l|t^ . 


132      IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAT. 


^»- 


strength,  and  truest  glory  and  renown.  What 
shall  we  do  to  add  to  such  influences,  that  the 
generations  to  come  may  have  the  blessing  of 
them,  —  that  they  may  add  their  interest  to  this 
moral  principal  we  shall  bequeath  to  them,  and 
so  increase  the  truest  wealth  of  the  future  ? 

The  future!  One  century  more  of  it,  and 
what  shall  this  future  bring  forth  ?  At  the  time 
of  another  centennial  day,  what  work  shall  have 
beeri  effected  that  shall  bring  the  world  nearer 
its  deliverance  from  the  evils  now  besetting  it, 
and  introduce  man  more  truly  to  himself  and  to 
the  great  God  who  made  him?  Shall  human 
hatreds  have  given  place  to  love?  Shall 
Slavery's  day  be  ended,  and  old  War  be  buried 
beneath  the  sod,  with  all  his  banners  of  blood, 
and  the  fields  be  tilled  with  the  implements  of 
his  destruction  ?  Then,  oh  then,  shall  the  words 
of  the  poet's  prophecy  be  fulfilled,  fraught,  as  we 
must  believe  them  to  be,  with  the  living  truth  of 
Heaven,  —  when  the  record  of  the  then  present, 
for  a  still  coming  future,  may  be  thus  gloriously 
written: 


IMPEESSI0N8  OF  A  BI-CENTENNIAL  DAY.       133 

**  Through  yine-wx«athed  cups,  with  wine  once  red, 
The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head. 
And  mossy  well. 

"  Through  prison-walls,  like  heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed. 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played  ! " 


When  the  old  and  the  new  shall  form  such  com- 
binations as  we  have  not  yet  the  power  to  effect, 
and  the  cherished  errors,  which  we  now  deem 
too  consecrated  by  long  usage  to  be  set  aside,  are 
regarded,  by  those  who  shall  be  wiser  in  such 
things  than  we,  as  we  ourselves  now  look  upon 
the  condemned  and  discarded  errors  of  our  pre- 
decessors here. 

But  these  meditations  must  end.  Our  Bi- 
centennial will  be  numbered  with  the  past. 
Bright  and  beautiful  day,  farewell !  Move  on  in 
the  mysterious  and  mighty  procession  of  all  days 
of  human  history !  If  thy  scenes  are  reflected  to 
other  intelligences,  of  whom  we  know  not,  may 
they  be  seen  to  our  honor,  and  not  to  our  shame ! 
12 


134      IMPRESSIONS  of  A  Bl-CENTENNIAL  DAT. 


May  the  lesson^  ^oti  fiast  given  induce  us  to 
hold  with  stronger  grasp  the  blessings  we  enjoy, 
and  pass  them  down,  with  pure  and  steady 
hands,  to  posterity ! 


'  •  V'l*'?!:*  -:^*i>'<^i"  •'>■■•-  -i.  ^^--■.  ,'    i  • 

!i    ■..  ..i  ,  ry: 

"""■"■      ■•"'•  (  '    ■          •«f**j^'v.- .'■*'.^it*'r-    ■■' 

■>  _.    ■     .,.,,.      ^.ly-. 

"'      '                       ■  ■         ^'      ^^•:.-t,<  h^;   •'.  ■ 

-    _     _'.'.             ,.     ,4 

.Jifrfiir   '-  '-■ 


I.'*-*      -  ■    .    ''■         -.  -        -■  V  -     •     .  - 


■i,    l',S<.;ii'"'Ai''  „|t      v.- 


^.'^1.'.     t 


'4-  > 


>        }■'   i     •    ft*-.    1;^ 


i     i'    '■♦*i,    '   ,  '  ^^  t^jf^   ,   ^1       v'  I       f' 


LA  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELOS,? 

BT  MBS.  M.  ▲.   LIVBKMOKX.    | 

[*<We  explored  the  cathedral,  of  which  mortals  had 
built  the  walls,  and  which  angels  had  capped  with  a 
mighty  dome,  of  a  symmetry  and  perfection  in  stone- 
work unequalled  by  humui  builders.  In  gratitude  to 
the  supernatural  architects,  the  city  has  since  been  called 

*  La  PUKBLA.  DE  LOS  AnOELOS.' "]  y 

Deep  they  laid  the  strong  foundations, 
High  the  massive  walls  upreared, 

And  the  tall  and  sculptured  columiM 
Marhie  forest-trees  appeared. 

Out  from  these  the  groined  arches 

Sprang  in  grace  and  strength  overhead ; 

And  a  high  and  vaulted  ceiling 

Gave  the  heart  a  sense  of  dread,       * 
Stretching  dim  above  the  head. 

Then  they  built  the  lofty  altar,       •# 
Whence  the  incense-flame  might  rise ; 

Here  the  holy  cross  was  planted, 
For  the  sinner's  tearful  eyes.         « 


136      LA  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELOS. 

And  they  hollowed  shadowed  niches, 
To  enshrine  the  statues  rare, 

Which,  with  pale  hands  ever  folded. 
Seem  outpouring'  ceaseless  prayer, 
Of  the  hallowed  place  aware. 

Then  they  sank  the  tinted  window 
Far  within  the  massive  wall. 

That,  subdued,  the  slanting  sunbeams 
Through  the  pillared  aisles  might  fall. 

And  they  crowned  each  arching  buttress 
With  a  tall  and  gilded  spire, 

To  reflect  the  ruddy  morning, 
Or  the  glorious  sunset  fire, 
When  glows  red  day's  funeml  pyre. 

Never  lagged  the  weary  workmen, 
Who,  with  pious  zeal  elate, 

Eaised  to  God  a  holy  templs. 
To  his  worship  consecrate,. 

Never  lacked  they  gold  or  silver. 
Never  lacked  they  jewels  rare ; 

And  a  soft  and  shining  splendor 
Was  infused  into  the  air,    ' 
From  the  gold  and  jewels  rare. 


LA   PUEBLA   DE   LOS  ANGELOS. 


137 


So  they  wrought,  till  all  was  ended, 
Save  the  dome  that  capped  the  whole, 

When  the  builders,  worn  and  weary. 
Rested  from  their  lengthened  toil. 

Night  dropped  down  her  starry  curtain. 
Midnight  hushed  the  world  to  rest, 

When,  adown  the  rifted  heavens. 
Softer  than  the  rosiest  west. 
Came  the  angels  of  the  blest. 

Brighter  than  the  woven  moonlight 
Were  the  robes  the  angels  wore ; 

Brighter  than  the  sun  of  noonday 
Were  the  implements  they  bore. 

1.-' 

All  that  night,  a  murmured  music 
Bippled  out  upon  the  air; 

All  that  night,  the  heavenly  builders 
Toiled  with  superhuman  care. 
Toiled  with  skill  and  beauty  rare. 


Mortals'  hands  could  ne'er  have  framed  it, 
That  unique  and  gorgeous  dome ; 

Angels  only  could  have  planned  it. 
In  their  wondrous  angel-home. 


188  LA  FUEBLA  DE   LOS  ANOELOS. 

Toiled  they  on  till  dawn  of  morning, 
Noiseless,  save  their  heavenly  lay, 

When,  complete,  the  dome  was  burnished 
With  the  sunlight's  earliest  ray. 
And  the  angels  fled  the  day. 

Came  once  more  the  pious  builders. 

With  their  zeal  and  strength  new-born ; 
But,  behold  !  the  dome,  completed, 
*     Had  already  kissed  the  mom ! 
Bright  and  dazzling  ^vas  the  radiance 

From  the  gilded  roof  that  streamed ; 
And  the  cross  made  dim  the  sunlight 

With  the  brilliance  of  its  beam ! 

Was  it  thus,  or  did  they  dream  ? 

On  their  knees  they  sank  in  wonder, 
On  their  knees  they  sank  in  prayer ; 

"  Sure,"  they  said,  "  God's  holy  angels 
In  the  night  have  labored  here. 

Let  us  call  it  Angel-city, 
Wliere  the  Holy  Ones  have  wrought ; 

And  let  rare  and  votive  offerings  . 
To  the  sacred  place  be  brought.  — 
Do  the  angels  know  our  thought  ?  " 


LA  FUEBUL  DE   LOS  AMOELOS. 


139 


Ay,  't  is  so.    Encamping  round  us, 

Angels  list  whatever  we  say ; 
And  they  come  and  go  about  us, 

In  the  night-time  and  the  day. 
Doubt  not,  if  thy  aim  be  holy,        ' 

They  will  aid  thee  in  thy  need ; 
Doubt  not  they  are  watching  o'er  th66, 

When  true  purpose  shapes  thy  deed,  — 

Trust  the  angels  when  they  lead. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATURE. 

The  clouds  wreathe  round  the  mountain, 
And  kiss  its  cold,  stem  brow; 

The  flower  bends  o'er  the  streamlet, 
As  calm  its  waters  flow. 

While  from  its  soft  and  perfumed  lips 
A  thousand  kisses  go. 

The  sunbeams  kiss  the  meadow, 

Whereon  they  lie  at  rest ; 
The  zephyr  folds  its  pinion 

Within  the  rose's  breast ; 
And  see  the  jewelled  humming-bird, 

By  all  the  flowers  caressed ! 

The  birds  come  flitting  round  us, 

On  gold  and  ruby  wing ; 
And  list  their  tuneful  chirping ! 

Of  love  they  only  sing ; 
And  to  my  cheek  the  sun  and  breeze 

Their  warmest  kisses  brinar. 


t 


J 


"'% 


^ 


.r:*7- 


'*■    ■%■' 


f  - 


[:,V.t;V^•■''-^^  >..;;. I  .# 


,.  .^}i<ktml'-,\'^^''^''>::-: 


m^^' 


%.  "''^^'  ■'*:  -'. 


\ 


k 


¥ 


f^'  #mTrON  OF  KATURE. 

T  L         ^     V  ;^t'K  round  ihe  niovu^»% 
J,ev-  &i**  .ifei)(|i$l<J,.  stem  browi,,. ,  V ,,,,.  v  ■ 

Tiie  jto^ teas  oer  the  streamlet* 
As  mim  it'*  ^«?4(ers  How, 

While  ffu«n  ;i»  3^»ft  #ind  i-;  rfumed  lips 
A  thousrtud  ki?>'?s  go. 


.:«?:»a33,;..k 


^r^i^ 


■fls.t  »fM.t3*i*nu»  i.T^  the  taeauow, 

W;iy^  ^  Isle's. -l^nt^j^,,:.   -I 
A.i^  w*^  f^p  T. ■■''Veiled  hurn*jitij^"^r<l. 


Tlie  isrk  cotru.  jiiiitiEJg  couiid  us, 

Oil  gold  tsA  ruliy  whig-; 
Ami  list  their  tuneful  chirping ! 
Oflovfc  tiiey  oidy  slog; 
^,  ■  ^d  to  piy  clieek,,!%|^  m^^i^.ks0^fi 
r-r   TIiejtT  warro'.'^t  kie-?**'  bring'. 


■^^■■: 


m 


'?^: 


"M,: 


^■ 


■¥&' 


itewV.-ir^iaBiftiViai'ii'j^^iiltefe^^^ 


.     ;.  &• 


^W, 


THE   EDTTCATION   OF  NATtTEE. 


141 


Then  sure  we  Ml  take  a  lesson 
Of  bird,  and  flower,  and  breeze, 

That  all  the  glorious  summer 
Go  kissing  where  they  please. 

Can  it  be  wrong  to  imitate 
Such  teachers  true  as  these  ? 


M.  A«  Lt 


THE  GOOD  TIME  NOW. 


BY    SEV.    HEMBT    BACOK. 


We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  good  time 
corfting.  Philosophers,  reformers,  and  poets, 
dwell  upon  it  with  enthusiasm,  and  their  pictures 
are  inspiring.  Their  visions  keep  hope  from 
perishing,  give  a  significance  to  what  is  said  of 
the  enduring  nature  of  good,  and  cheer  the 
"  winter  of  discontent "  with  the  promises  of  the 
golden  summer  affluent  to  satisfy  the  most  exact- 
ing. It  is  sometimes  quite  exhilarating  to  hold 
converse  with  these  prophetic  souls,  who  see  the 
body  of  the  present  die  only  to  give  develop- 
ment to  a  more  perfect  being.  They  stand  at 
their  telescope,  studying  the  perturbations  that 
seem  confusion,  and  continually  repeat  their 
belief  that  a  new  planet  will  yet  reveal  itself  to 
fill  up  the  circle  of  Order.  How  beautiful  is  the 
hopeful  strain  of  the  astronomer,  who,  after 
dwelling   upon  the  nebulse  theory,  and  expati- 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


143 


ating  on  the  stupendous  suppositions  which  that 
theory  gave  to  the  student,  accepted  the  douht 
of  the  sceptic,  hut  still  maintained  that  one 
thing,  at  least,  was  gained,  and  that  was  the 
certainty  that,  "  in  the  vast  heavens,  as  well  as 
among  phenomena  around  us,  all  things  are  in  a 
state  of  change  and  progress.  There,  too,  on  the 
sky,  in  splendid  hieroglyphics,  the  truth  is  in- 
scribed, that  the  grandest  forms  of  present  being 
are  only  germs,  swelling  rnd  Ijursting  with  a 
life  to  come!"  "To  Come!  To  every  crea- 
ture, these  are  words  of  hope,  spoken  in  organ 
tone;  our  hearts  suggest  them,  and  the  stars 
repeat  them,  and  through  the  infinite  Aspiration 
wings  its  way,  rejoicing  as  an  eagle  following 
the  sun."  This  is  a  beautiful  thought,  —  to 
make  progress  of  things  among  the  stars  pro- 
phetic of  a  good  time  coming  among  the  things 
on  the  earth.  The  glory  of  the  terrestiual  is  one, 
but  th^  glory  of  the  celestial  is  another;  yet 
these  glories  may  harmonize,  in  the  fact  that 
each  may  be  perfect  after  its  kind,  as  angels  and 
men  in  their  obedience  to  God.  To  come !  says 
Faith,  of  her  bright  visions.     To  come!   says 


144 


THE    GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


Hope,  of  her  beautiful  prophecies.  To  come! 
says  Love,  looking  up  and  on ;  waiting  quietly 
for  stars  to  shine  and  the  day  to  break,  —  hear- 
ing, in  the  rude  blast,  the  whisper  of  the  calm. 

Far  better  is  this  recurrence  to  the  future,  — 
this  living  in  the  Eden  to  come,  —  than,  turning 
mournfully  to  the  past,  recognizing  only  a  good 
time  gone !  Man  is  considered  but  as  a  pile  of 
ruins,  by  such  a  creed.  Adam  was  more  than 
Abraham,  and  Abraham  more  than  David ;  and 
though  Christ  has  come,  and  half  the  veil  removed 
from  eternal  glory,  still  the  Paradise  Lost  is  the 
burden  of  the  heart.  To  progress  into  manhood, 
is  to  see  the  best  rays  "  fade  into  the  common  light 
of  day ;"  and  however  beautiful  may  be  the  sunset, 
the  dawn,  it  is  affirmed,  was  more  lovely.  This 
tendency  to  find  the  good  time  in  the  past,  is 
seen  in  the  regrets  which  are  expended  over 
perished  .childhood;  the  draught  which  David 
desired  from  the  well  of  Bethlehem  regarded  as 
better  than  the  "  drawing,  with  joy,  water  out  of 
the  wells  of  Salvation,"  with  a  nation  rapt  with 
the  blessedness  of  the  Messianic  hope.  The 
look  of  regret  is  an  infinite  contrast  to  the  look 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


145 


of  exultant  hope ;  —  the  one  was  on  the  face  of 
Heathendom,  turned  to  the  Past ;  the  other,  on  the 
face  of  the  Church,  as  it  gazed  on  the  Future. 
As  far  as  our  mere  human  affections  are  con- 
cerned, —  as  far  as  refers  to  the  tender  relations 
of  domestic  life,  —  this  looking  back  is  well.  It 
refreshes  withering  sympathies ;  it  restores  gentle- 
ness ;  it  quickens  gratitude ;  it  environs  us  again 
with  the  sanctities  which  we  once  thought  would 
always  keep  us  pure.  One  of  the  best  apologies 
of  the  criminal  is  that  which  he  sometimes 
makes  so  forcible,  when  he  tells  us  he  never 
knew  a  childhood,  —  that  he  burst  at  once  into 
the  harsh  realities  of  life ;  that  his  early  years 
remind  him  only  of  the  young  deer  pressing  his 
way  through  briars  and  thorns,  cut  and  wounded 
on  every  side.  A  happy  childhood  is  one  of  the 
holiest  charms  that  man  ever  knows  as  redeem- 
ing. To  the  most  desolate  it  is  a  joy  that  he 
was  happy  once ;  an*^  the  severest  tyranny  can- 
not take  from  the  captive  his  power  to  live  over 
years  of  freedom  he  once  knew ;  —  to  go  back  to 
childhood ;  to  recall  the  grand  things  we  dreamed 
of  accomplishing,  —  to  think  of  the  charms  with 


146 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


which  imagination  and  fancy  could  invest 
life,  and  how  the  thought  of  the  great  future 
lifted  us  out  of  any  despai?  in  the  present,  is 
good.  It  has  a  beneficent  mission.  It  is,  in  a 
certain  sense,  redeeming.  It  brings  to  our  sight 
the  face  now  withered,  and  the  eye  now  dull,  as 
they  appeared  to  young  wonder,  reverence,  and 
love;  and  as  the  soul  comes  back  from  those 
roamings  to  by-gone  years,  and  feels  how  care 
has  ploughed  the  furrows  in  the  once  smooth 
cheek,  and  that  that  care  was  the  intense  work- 
ing of  love  for  him,  there  is  an  attraction  in  the 
faded  face  which  the  bloom  of  youthful  beauty 
never  could  claim. 

But  this  is  far  from  the  action  Ox  that  looking 
back  to  the  good  time  past,  that  sees  nothing 
beautiful  but  what  has  gone  forever ;  —  that 
weeps  over  the  spot  where  the  old  home  stood ; 
that  sighs  for  the  creaking  of  the  wheel  at  the 
cistern,  and  the  long  sweep  at  the  well ;  that  can 
pluck  no  fruit  like  the  golden  apples  that  ripened 
where  the  robins  waked  the  child  from  his  sleep ; 
that  sighs  for  the  dried  brook,  the  vanished  hill- 
side, the  old  oak,  and  the  trustful  dreaming  and 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


147 


bright  faith  of  childhood.  This  is  not  letting  the 
child  in  our  heart  lead  us  to  refreshing  memories. 
It  is  becoming  a  child,  —  forgetting  the  duties 
and  privileges  of  manhood.  We  should  use  the 
power  of  looking  back,  as  the  traveller  does,  when 
ascending  some  lofty  height ;  when,  wearied,  and 
imagining  his  ascent  less  rapid  than  it  is,  he 
stops  and  turns  round,  he  sees  what  he  has  left; 

—  all  the  rude  features  are  lost  in  the  distance ; 

—  the  most  repulsive  portions  of  the  scene  con- 
tribute to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  sight.  But 
while  he  enjoys  and  is  refreshed  by  the  scene,  he 
does  not  forget  how  those  things  looked  when  he 
was  nearer  to  them,  nor  does  he  fail  to  appreciate 
that  it  is  his  progress  that  gives  him  such  a  view 
of  what  must  be  left  behind.  "  When  I  became 
a  man,"  said  Paul,  "  I  put  away  childish  things ;" 
and  so  should  it  be  with  him  who,  in  belonging 
to  the  present,  is  leaving  the  childhood  of  the 
race  with  rapid  steps.  But  there  is  a  great 
difference  among  men  as  to  what  are  esteemed 
as  childish  things,  or  what  are  the  childish  things 
that  should  be  put  away.  Childhood  has  things 
which  Jesus  would  counsel  us  to  retain.    It  was 


148 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


a  great  act  of  his  when  he  took  a  little  child  and 
placed  him  in  the  midst  of  his  contending  dis- 
ciples, contrasting  its  simplicity  with  the  cunning 
of  their  ambition.  There  is  a  good  time  past, 
that  will  never  be  undervalued  by  him  who 
regards  purity  and  love  as  more  to  be  desired 
than  sin  and  enmity.  How  the  simple  sports  of 
children  rebuke  our  ceaseless  toil  after  artificial 
pleasures !  How  the  speedy  reconciliation  of 
offending  parties  shames  our  hard-heartedness, 
and  our  stiff-necked  rebellion  against  our  own 
and  social  peace.  "  We  put  away,"  says  Marti- 
neau,  "  the  guileless  mind,  the  pure  vision,  the 
simple  trust,  the  tender  conscience ;  and  reserve 
the  petty  scale  of  thought,  the  hasty  will,  the 
love  of  toys  and  strife.  Paul  put  away  only  the 
ignorance  and  littleness  of  childhood,  bearing 
with  him  its  freshness,  its  truth,  its  God,  into 
the  grand  work  of  his  full  age.  And  hence, 
while  our  religion  lies  somewhere  near  our 
cradle,  and  is  a  kind  of  sacred  memory,  his  lived 
on,  to  speak  for  itself,  instead  of  being  talked 
about.  It  fought  all  his  conflicts;  it  took  the 
weight  out  of  his  chains ;  it  condensed  the  light- 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


149 


ning  of  his  pen,  and  kindled  the  whole  furnace 
of  his  glorious  nature." 

It  was  because  of  this  continuity  of  life,  —  this 
growth,  expansion,  progress,  —  that  there  was 
ever  to  Paul  an  important  runjo.  He  not  only- 
looked  back  and  forward,  but  around  him ;  ay, 
and  within  him.  He  saw  what  the  stream  of 
Time  had  done,  and  was  careful  to  see  what  it 
was  doing,  that  he  might  read  the  prophecy  of 
what  it  might  possibly  do.  A  good  time  gone 
he  acknowledged;  a  good  time  coming  he  re- 
joiced in ;  but  he  also  reverently  owned  a  good 
time  NOW ;  and  there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in 
his  word  when  he  said,  "iVW  is  the  accepted 
time ;  now  is  the  day  of  salvation."  And  so 
With  the  repetition  of  the  ancient  words,  *'  o- 
day,  if  ye  will  harden  not  your  hearts,  hear  His 
voice."  That  must  be  a  good  time,  that  is  accept- 
able to  God  for  the  greatest  of  purposes,  —  for 
the  working  out  of  the  noblest  possibilities  of  our 
nature,  —  for  rising  to  the  best  height  wherefrom 
to  see  the  coming  glory  of  God.  That  must  be 
a  good  time,  that  affords  us  means  to  prevent  the 
hardening  of  the  heart,  the  deadening  of  the 
13* 


150 


THE    GOOD  TIME    NOW. 


'  'i 
1 


moral  sensibilities,  the  blighting  of  the  soul. 
The  good  time  invites  our  thought,  our  regard, 
our  reverence,  our  ability  to  improve. 

The  Bible,  with  its  story  of  the  Creation  and 
of  Eden,  reminds  us  of  the  good  time  gone ;  and, 
with  its  more  glorious  story  of  Bethlehem  and 
the  Manger,  the  Baptism  and  the  Temptation, 
Gethsemane,  Calvary,  the  Garden  Sepulchre, 
and  Olivet,  and  the  Throne  of  Mediation  and  the 
Mercy  Seat,  speaks  to  us  of  the  good  time  com- 
ing ;  —  "  life  and  immortality  are  brought  to 
light ;"  Satan  is  deposed  from  his  seat  of  power, 
and  God,  all  in  all,  finishes  the  work  of  redemp- 
tion. But  no  less  does  the  Bible  make  of  the 
good  time  now.  There  was  a  now  to  all  these 
things  which  make  up  the  story  of  lost  holiness 
and  its  restoration.  There  was  a  moment  when 
Adam  started  into  being.  That  was  a  glorious 
now  to  him.  There  was  a  time  when  the  child 
of  a  thousand  promises  was  bom ;  and  that  was  a 
stupendous  now  to  the  angels  who  sang  the  birth- 
song  of  the  infant  Redeemer.  What  a  wom>,  — 
what  absorbing  interest  was  thrown  around  it,  — 
when  John  the  Baptist  appeared,  to  teach  repent- 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


161 


nnce;  when  Jesus  appeared,  to  be  baptized  of 
John ;  when  the  temptation  was  completed,  and 
the  victory  over  it  too ;  when  Jesus  sat  on  the 
mountain,  and  delivered  the  sermon  of  truth ! 
To  each  one  of  the  multitude  our  Saviour  healed, 
what  a  now  was  experienced  !  When  the  poor 
baffled  cripple,  at  the  pool,  spw  the  face  of  Christ 
kindling  with  the  fervor  o  Divine  sympathy, 
and  the  words  com'ng-  to  save  him.  —  when  the 
man  with  the  withered  hand  was  required  to 
stretch  forth  his  hand,  in  the  midst  of  the  cavil- 
ling synagogue,  —  and  when  the  woman  pressed 
through  the  crowd  to  touch  the  robe  of  Jesus, 
—  what  a  now  was  known !  If  all  nature  had 
stopped  in  its  course,  it  could  not  have  made  the 
time  more  a  special  hour.  And  what,  amid  all 
our  hoy.  M,  — our  dreams  of  the  future,  —  can 
bring  anything  more  sublime,  more  abounding 
with  the  purest  and  most  thrilling  poetry,  than 
was  known  in  that  now  when  afresh  flowed  the 
tears  of  the  weepers  of  Bethany,  because  "  Jesus 
wept "  ?  What  a  good  time  now  would  it  have 
been  with  those  weepers,  in  the  place  of  graves, 
had  they  read   the  moral  significance  of  that 


152 


THE   GOOD  TIME  NOW. 


iiour!  Had  they  known  what  millions  would 
take  that  incident  into  their  chambers  of  dark- 
ness, and  dwell  on  it  as  they  sat  beside  their 
dead,  —  had  they  known  how  it  would  be  used  to 
annihilate  the  iron  force  of  stoicism,  and  prove 
sorrow  no  sin,  tears  no  insult  to  God,  groans  no 
reproach  against  Providence,  -r-  had  they  antici- 
pated what  in  our  age  is  drawn  from  those  tears, 
as  they  are  seen  radiant  with  the  soul  of  Jesus, 
—  they  would  have  deemed  that  nmv  one  of  the 
grandest  hours  of  man.  The  past  would  have 
been  but  a  back-ground  to  the  central  figure  of 
glory;  and  far  into  the  future  would  the  light  of 
that  present  have  been  seen  shining. 

The  great  hours  of  man,  as  seen  in  history, 
assist  us  to  give  significance  to  wow,  and  show  its 
acceptance  with  God  for  grand  issues.  Quiet  as 
the  birth  of  a  star  in  the  twilight,  still  as  the 
coming  up  of  the  moon  from  the  ocean,  has  been 
the  birth-hour  of  some  of  the  sublimest  events  in 
the  progress  of  humanity ;  and  how  closely  united 
the  most  awe-inspiring  and  the  simplest  incidents 
are  sometimes  found,  is  well  shown  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  meteor  that  guided  the  eastern 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


153 


Magi  to  the  infant  Saviour,  and  th6  familiar 
picture  seen  when  they  found  the  object  sought 
for:  —  "And  when  they  were  come  into  the 
house,  they  saw  the  young  child,  with  Mary  his 
mother."  Signs  in  the  heavens  may  draw  to 
the  sight  of  familiar  things,  in  such  a  way  that 
we  shall  readily  pay  homage  where,  otherwise, 
we  might  take  no  note  of  what  was  near,  — 
"  feeble  beginning  of  a  mighty  end." 

Now  !  What  is  it  ?  Is  it  not  really  a  portion 
of  our  existence  ?  —  the  living  cord,  binding  us  to 
our  identity,  —  conveying  to  our  consciousness 
what  we  have  been  and  are,  and  reaching  pro- 
phetically, with  its  electric  shootings,  into  the 
future.  It  is  a  time  for  faith,  hope,  and  charity ; 
for  aspiration  and  endeavor;  for  baffling  the 
tempter,  and  helping  the  tempted ;  for  catching 
new  visions  of  duty,  new  incentives  to  heroic 
action,  new  reasons  for  gratitude  to  God  and 
devotion  to  Christ.  Now!  Why,  it  is  a  part 
of  God's  eternity,  —  his  providential  sovereignty 
over  man;  and  who  can  tell  what  may  be  ready 
to  burst  on  our  astonished  vision,  to  make  this 
an  hour  that  shall  be  the  parent  of  ages  of  good 


154 


THE   GOOD  TIME  NOW. 


for  man?  What  magnificent  issues,  in  some 
quarter  of  this  globe,  may  not  the  eye  of  Om- 
niscience see  springing  forth  in  the  germ? 
When  the  bird  alighted  on  the  branch  of  the 
tree,  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave  into  which  Ma- 
homet had  fled,  it  seemed.no  moment  to  take 
note  of,  —  to  be  marked  in  the  world's  history ; 
but  it  nevertheless  was  such  a  moment.  Ma- 
homet was  saved  by  the  inference  his  pursuers 
drew  from  the  bird  sitting  on  tlfat  branch  and 
singing.  What  a  now  was  that  to  him!  A 
song  was  between  him  and  death ;  —  the  song 
prevailed. 

Speaking  of  a  song,  reminds  me  of  a  poet,  and 
a  peculiar  use  of  this  word  now.  She  lay  on  the 
bed  of  death.  Her  large  Hebrew  eyes  were  full 
of  lustre,  beneath  a  jutting  forehead,  white  as 
the  robe  of  Jesus  at  the  transfiguration;  and, 
flowing  upon  the  pillows  beneath  her  '  id,  were 
the  dark  ringlets,  tossed  here  and  there,  at  times, 
by  the  hand,  as  the  arm  swayed  itself  around  her 
head,  as  though  parting  the  vines  and  flowers 
in  some  eastern  bower.  The  music  of  angels 
dropped  upon  her  hearing,  and  her  face  was  radi- 


THE   GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


155 


ant  with  the  light  of  a  beatified  soul ;  and  such 
visions  of  flowers  what  eye  ever  saw  ?  It  was  a 
time  when  a  pure  soul  was  being  crowned,  and 
the  significance  given  to  the  nofw  made  the  future 
a  continuance  of  rapture  and  glory.  ^^Now,' 
spoke  the  dying  Christian;  "now  — "  and  her 
voice  failed,  or  dropped  into  that  whisper  of 
ecstasy  which  seems  to  regard  a  louder  speech  as 
profane  for  the  thought  to  be  uttered.  "Now" 
was  expressed  distinctly;  but  the  sentiment  it 
heralded  was  only  to  be  caught  from  the  move- 
ment of  the  lips ;  -  -  it  was,  "  Now  we  see 
through  a  glass  darkly."  The  soul  that  uttered 
it  felt  it  was  a  great  thing  to  see  eternal  glories, 
even  darkly,  —  in  riddles,  as  it  vs  ere  dimly 
as,  in  outline,  we  behold  objects  witliout  the 
frosty  pane,  in  the  streets  of  the  city.  It  was 
a  good  time  now  to  her  heart,  as  she  looked 
darkly,  dimly,  at  the  things  of  heaven;  and 
when  she  said  "  but  then  face  to  face,"  the  rap- 
ture that  lighted  up  her  whole  being,  and  seemed 
to  float  her  on  an  atmosphere  of  beauty,  was 
kindled  by  the  right  estimate  of  the  now.  She 
died  as  she  had  lived,  a  child  of  faith ;  and  the 


166 


TH£  GOOD  TIME   NOW. 


memory  of  her  quiet  household  ways,  her  retir- 
ing graces,  hnr  excelling  sweetness,  her  keen 
intuitions  of  the  Divine,  her  exquisite  discern- 
ment of  the  poetic,  her  worship  of  God  in  the 
loveliness  of  cheerful  obr3dience  to  duty,  gives  to 
this  hour  of  thoughtfulncss  a  sacrcdtiess  that 
says,  Noto  is  the  accepted  time  to  copy  that 
excellence  you  admire.  Now  is  the  day  of  sal- 
vation, when  you  may  be  redeeming  from  that 
captivity  which  keeps  you  from  the  enjoyment 
of  the  freedom  she  knew,  —  knew  in  childhood, 
youth,  and  womanhood,  —  that  gave  her  joy  as 
she  felt  her  lot  amid  the  universe  of  things  that 
spake  of  God  and  his  love,  and  prompted  her  to 
sing,  — 

*'  0  heart  of  mine  !    Thou,  too,  shouldst  be 
An  ever  taW.  unsounded  sea 
Of  joy  and  love  !  " 

Let  the  noto  of  our  being  be  as  beautifuUy 
filled  up  with  Christian  endeavors,  and  then  — 
who  can  tell  what  will  be  then  ?  —  what  mission 
our  life  may  execute?  —  what  future  it  may 
make  for  others  ?  Let  us  be  faithful  to  the 
present ;  —  God  will  give  it  a  future. 


-■^,^r 


THOUGHTS  BY  LAKE  ST.  CHARLES,  NEAR 

aUEBEC.  ■'. 


DY    RKV.    A.    a.    LAUEin 

There  aro  moments  when  mirth  will  forsake  us, 

And  calm  cover  bosom  and  brow, 
And  silence  and  thought  overtake  us,  — 

Their  shadow  is  over  me  now. 

The  dark,  woody  mountains  around  me, 

The  lake  lying  still  at  their  feet, 
The  magic  of  Nature  hath  bound  me. 

Her  spell  at  once  solemn  and  sweet. 

The  clouds  hasten  down  to  their  slumber, 

And  follow  t'le  sun  to  the  west ; 
All  glowing  in  golden  and  umber, 

They  sink  in  his  radiance  to  rest. 

And  nov  from  the  silence  above  me 
The  stars  look  upon  m  ,     •  and  shine 

So  steadfastly,  —  surely  they  love  me. 
And  smile  with  affection  Diviii^i. 
14 


158 


THOUGHTS    5V   LAK:.   ST,  CHARLES. 


O  Natnre,  dear  Nai!7r*e  !  thou  \>!  iy,  — 
When,  worn  wita  the  world  and  its  chain, 

We  turn  from  it,  loathing  and  lonely,  — 
Thou  only  canbt  sootho  .is  a^ain. 

We  throw  ourselves  bjc-i:  on  thy  bosom, 

And  hopes  that  were  withered  and  dead, 
Spring  freshly  in  beauty  and  blossom. 

To  lure,  where  they  ever  have  led.  , 

I 

So,  tread  we  the  bright  path  or  dreary. 
To  reach  the  sad  rest  of  the  sod. 

We  hope  and  pursue,  till  we  're  weary. 
Then  turn  —  but  to  Nature  ?  or  God  ? 

Alas !  while  we  pause  upon  Nature, 

In  her  such  attraction  we  find. 
Too  rarely  we  reach  her  Creator, 

Sublime  in  the  shadow  behind^ 


'^iaskm. 


IM 


A  CHAPTER  FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FAMILY. 


BY    HKS.    H.    A.    LIVEBMOBB. 

Among  the  many  beautiful  and  picturesque 
villages  that  are  scattered  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  dear  New  England,  not  a  lovelier 

can  be  found  than  the  little  village  of  D . 

Its  location,  the  natural  beauty  of  its  scenery,  the 
cultivation  bestowed  upon  it  by  the  lavish  hand 
of  wealth  and  taste,  together  with  the  grouping 
of  neat  white  homesteads  and  occasional  princely 
mansions  on  its  hill-sides,  conspire  to  render  it 
one  of  the  most  charming  of  country  towns.  At 
a  distance,  old  Holyoke  and  Tom  lift  sturdily  up 
their  green  heads  towards  heaven,  appearing  to 
extend  the  aegis  of  their  protection  over  the  towns 
below;  a  tributary  of  the  Connecticut,  like  a 
thread  of  silver,  winds  amid  the  beautiful  dwell- 
ings, the  embowering  shade-trees,  and  flow- 
ery gardens;  while  green  hills  and  pine-clad 
mountains  girdle  the  landscape  with  their  en- 
circling arms. 


160 


A  CHAPTER  FROM 


But  though  the  very  spirit  of  beauty  dwells 
here,  there  is  an  entire  absence  of  another  spirit, 
without  whose  tutelary  presence  no  New  Eng- 
land  village  can  grow  and  thrive,  —  the  spirit  of 
enterprise.  An  atmosphere  of  dreamy  quiet 
hangs  over  the  town,  like  that  which  brooded 
over  Sleepy  Hollow ;  for  none  of  the  din,  and 
turmoil,  and  confusion,  incident  to  the  clang, 
clatter,  and  whizzing  of  machinery,  have  ever 
found  their  way  thither.  No  branch  of  mechan- 
ism or  manufacture  is  carried  on  in  the  village. 
It  is  not  extensively  engaged  even  in  agriculture ; 
and  the  railroad,  with  its  sjmoking,  snorting, 
puffing,  whizzing  train,  that  has  intruded  every- 
where, and  violated  every  sacred  retreat  of 
nature,  comes  not  within  the  purlieus  of  the  vil- 
lage, but  makes  a  detour  of  some  three  miles 
around  it,  as  if  conscientiously  scrupulous  about 
disturbing  the  holy  quiet  of  the  spot.  Th**  vil- 
lage store,  the  blacksmith's  shop,  and  a  small  mil- 
linery and  dress-making  establishment,  furnish  all 

the   employment  to  be   found  in  D ;   and 

those  in  need  of  other  employment  are  obliged 
to  seek  it  elsewhere.    Most  of  its  residents,  hov/ 


■"/ 


THE  HI8T0BY  OF  A  FAMILY. 


lei 


ever,  are  people  of  wealth  or  competence,  who 
already  possess  the  means  oi  livelihood,  and  who 
find  life  in  this  paradisiacal  and  somewhat  aristo- 
cratic village  congenial  to  theii  h^ibits  and  tastes. 
With  some,  however,  it  is  otherwise.  Occa- 
sionally there  are  those  whose  circumstances 
force  upon  them  the  necessity  of  removing  to 
some  more  enterprising  town,  or  of  coming  to 
certain  poverty  amid  the  beauty  and  cultivation 
of  their  old  home.  Among  this  number  must  bp 
classed  Mrs.  Ward,  a  widow  lady,  with  three 
children ;  the  eldest  f  an  age  and  ability  to  pro- 
vide for  herself,  if  an  jt^  "^unity  were  granted 
her,  the  younger  two  requiimg  parental  care  and 
maintenance  for  some  years  to  come.  Mr. 
Ward,  a  man  of  intellectual  culture,  scholastic 
attainments,  and  gentlemanly  accomplishments^ 
had  formerly  been  a  practitioner  at  the  bar ;  but 
just  as  he  was  acquirinsf  fame  and  fortune  by  his 
profession,  death  ca  .lo  lO  interrupt  his  career, 
and  he  was  summoned  from  duties  and  labors 
here  to  the  labors  and  duties  of  a  higher  life. 
For  a  long  time  his  bereaved  and  inconsolable 
wife  struggled  on  as  best  she  could ;  —  the  ex?> 


'%. 


162 


A  CHAPTER   FROM 


penses  of  their  daily  life  were  met,  and  means  of 
improvement  and  culture  secured  to  her  children. 
But,  as  time  sped,  her  cares  and  responsibilities 
increased ,  the  needs  of  her  children  demanded  a 
larger  expenditure  of  money,  and  she  found  that 
some  plan  must  be  devised  to  increase  the  limited 
means  left  her  by  her  husband.  What  could  bo 
done  ?  Again  and  again  she  revolved  the  query 
in  her  own  mind,  and  at  last  decided  to  sell  their 
cottage  and  to  move  to  a  distant  city,  where,  she 
hoped,  and  was  induced  to  believe,  employment 
might  be  found  for  herself  and  daugb  r.  Harriet, 
this  daughter,  some  eighteen  or  nineteen  ye^irs 
old,  was  a  beautiful  but  timid  and  shrin.ang  girl; 
well  educated,  and  possessed  of  many  accomplif  ii- 
ments.  Her  mind  was  of  a  superior  order,  and 
her  father,  whose  pride  she  was,  had  bestowed 
upon  it  no  mean  cultivation.  Her  voice  vras 
one  of  richest  melody,  and  her  musical  talent  had 
b'on  well  deyeloped  by  the  first  masters  in  the 
region  where  she  lived.  She  was  qualified  to 
t  ach,  or  to  give  lessons  in  music ;  but  there  was 
no  opportunity  for  her  to  do  either  in  her  native 
town,  and  both  she  and  her  mother  hoped  her 


THE   HISTORY    OF   A   FAMILY. 


163 


musical  skill  might  be  called  in  requisition  in 
the  city. 

As  for  Mrs.  Ward,  she  had  decided  to  rent  a 
convenient  and  moderate-sized  tenement  in  a 
pleasant  part  of  the  n.eiropolis,  hoping  to  secure 
some  three  or  four  pleasant  boarders  as  inmates 
of  her  family,  by  whose  patronage  she  might  be 
able  to  eke  out  her  slender  income.  For  her 
sons,  she  anticipated  the  unequalled  advantages 
of  the  city  schools,  justly  the  pride  and  glory  of 
New  England,  which  open  to  rich  and  poor  alike 
the  priceless  boon  of  a  good  education. 

Her  plans  once  formed  and  matured,  she  lost 
no  time  in  carrying  them  into  execution.  Their 
tasteful  cottage  and  garden  were  disposed  of; 
such  of  their  household  goods  as  they  were  not 
to  take  with  them  were  also  parted  with  ;  a  pleas- 
ant house  in  ;\  pleasant  street  was  secured ;  and 
then,  with  some  secret  misgivings  as  to  the  wis- 
dom of  the  course  she  was  pursuing,  and  with 
many  relentless  heart-aches,  she  turned  from  the 
dear  spot,  indissolubly  linked  with  the  memory 
of  her  ascended  husband,  and  plunged  into  the 


164 


A   CHAPTER   7R0M 


bustle,  the  bewildering  turmoil  and  confusion,  of 
the  city. 

Her  sons  were  much  too  young  to  grieve  over 
the  change,  or  be  otherwise  than  pleased  with  its 
novelty ;  but  Harriet,  whose  retiring  nature  was 
one  of  great  sensitiveness,  and  whose  heart  clung 
to  the  home  of  her  infancy,  felt  herself  fluttered 
with  fear,  like  a  frightened  bird,  at  the  thought 
of  being  thrown  among  strangers,  while  a  chilling 
sense  of  isolation  gathered  about  her  spirit,  as 
she  saw  crowds  of  people  passing  and  repassing 
their  dwelling,  and  felt  that  in  their  very  midst 
she  was  yet  alone. 

As  soon  as  they  were  settled  in  their  new 
habitation,  Mrs.  Ward  offered  her  accommoda- 
tions to  the  boarding  public,  through  the  medium 
of  the  advertising  columns  of  two  or  three  re- 
spectable daily  papers.  Harriet's  services  as 
music-teacher  were  offered  in  the  same  way, 
while  James  and  Clarence  received  admission 

into  the School,  and  were  punctual  in  their 

attendance,  and  unremitting  in  their  application. 
But  weeks  passed  away,  and  though  Mrs.  Ward's 
advertisement  drew  applicants  to  her  house,  she 


^,#\ 


THE   itlS^ORt  Of   A  FAMILY. 


165 


was  yeft  unsuccessful  in  obtnining  Any  inmates  to 
her  family.  One  was  not  pleased  with  her  ac- 
commodations ;  a  second  thought  her  terms  too 
high ;  a  third  deprecated  the  location ;  a  fourth 
disliked  to  board  where  there  were  children ;  a 
fifth  preferred  a  larger  boarding-house ;  and  so  on, 
to  the  end  of  the  catalogue. 

Nor  was  Harriet  more  successful  in  her  en- 
*  deavors  to  obtain  music-pupils.  The  city  was 
already  overstocked  with  music-teachers;  —  pa- 
rents found  it  easy  to  obtain  the  instruction  of 
the  most  scientific  masters,  and  most  accom- 
plished artists,  for  their  children,  before  whose 


brilliant  execution,  and  rich,  ^^',  .iiisiic  singing, 
Harriet's  abilities,  fespectabis.  vi  i*^;!y  w-'-e,  paled 
and  sunk  into  insignifica  c.  ^'i  Ij  while, 
however,  their  expenditures  ^...  on  as  usual; 
for  everything  they  enjoyed,  for  the  merest  com- 
fort, —  the  most  indispensable  necessary  of  life, 
—  they  were  required  to  make  payment,  that,  to 
them,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  cheaper 
prices  of  a  country  town,  seemed  ruinously  exor- 
bitant ;  and  as  this  continual  outlay  was  not  met 
by  the  first  sous  in  the  way  of  income,  their 


F>- 


166 


A   CHAPTER   FROM 


scantily-filled  purse  was  soon  well-nigh  drained, 
and  blank  poverty  stared  them  in  the  face. 

Mrs.  Ward's  heart  died  within  her,  as  did  that 
of  her  daughter.  They  now  saw  that  their 
removal  to  the  city  was  an  injudicious  step ;  but 
while  they  had  not  the  means  of  returning  to 

D ,  if  they  would,  they  felt  that  a  return 

thither  would  be  only  to  change  the  location,  and 
retain  the  grinding  poverty.  But  something 
must  be  done.  It  would  not  do  for  Mrs.  Ward 
to  fold  her  hands  in  inaction,  or  to  give  herself 
up  to  despair.  Three  children  had  claims  upon 
her;  and  for  their  sakes,  sick  at  heart  and  de- 
sponding as  she  was,  she  must  yet  battle  with 
life,  and  stem  the  current  now  setting  in  against 
her.  Her  first  step  was  to  reduce  the  enormous 
house-rent  she  was  paying ;  and  this  she  effected 
by  admitting  another  family  under  the  roof,  re- 
serving but  three  or  fo»  apartments  for  herself 
and  children.  As  she  had  now  abandoned  all 
hope  of  maintaining  herself  by  taking  boarders, 
she  disposed  of  the  recently-purchased  furnituie, 
and  thus  raised  a  small  fund  that  gave  them 
temporary  relief.    Harriet  besought  her  mother 


THE   HISTORY  OF   A   FAMILY. 


167 


to  sell  the  piano,  which  she  believed  would 
bring  nearly  its  full  value;  but  Mrs.  Ward 
avowed  her  determination  to  sacrifice  that  only 
in  the  last  extremity.  Her  only  desire  now  was 
to  obtain  labor,  however  menial,  so  it  was  honor- 
able ;  —  labor  which  would  secure  to  herself  and 
children  the  necessaries  of  life. 

They  soon  found  they  had  been  very  fortunate 
in  the  family  they  had  received  into  the  house. 
They  found  them  kind-hearted,  sympathetic,  and 
neighborly  ;  and,  in  the  end,  a  permanent  friend- 
ship grew  up  between  the  two  households.  One 
of  the  daughters,  who  was  a  teacher  in  one  of  the 
many  primary  schools  of  the  city,  formed  a 
strong  attachment  towards  Harriet,  whose  deli- 
cate figure,  soft  violet  eyes,  and  pensive  face, 
could  not  fail  of  awakening  interest  in  any  heart. 
She  soon  perceived  that  she  was  educated  and 
accomplished  beyond  her  station  in  life ;  and 
learning  from  the  dejected  girl  something  of  their 
destitute  circumstances,  and,  with  womanly  intu- 
ition, guessing  the  rest,  she  deter.*nined  to  be- 
friend her.  She  was  herself  on  the  eve  of 
marriage ;  and,  accompanying  her  resignation  of 


168 


A  CHAVrF?:  FEOM 


her  office,  she  made,  in  person,  an  application  to 
the  chairman  of  the  committee  for  Harriet  as 
her  successor.  Dr.  Arnold,  the  chairman  of  the 
hoard,  was  a  man  of  large  heart  and  ready  sym- 
pathies; of  active  benevolence  and  well-known 
philanthroDV ;  and  as  he  listened  to  the  urgent 
pleas  in  Harriet's  behalf,  and  to  the  eloquent 
eulogy  of  her  merits  and  virtues,  pronounced  by 
her  friend,  he  becam*?  interested,  and  begged  an 
introduction  to  the  young  applicant. 

Accordingly,  on  the  next  day,  the  timid,  trem- 
bling, self-distrustful  girl,  with  her  new-found 
friend,  called  at  Dr.  Arnold's  office.  The  grace 
and  beauty  of  Harriet  instantly  pleased  him ;  for 
he  was  unmarried,  dear  reader,  —  a  bachelor  of 
more  than  thirty ;  there  was  something,  to  him, 
infinitely  touching  in  her  soft  eyes,  her  low,  sad 
voice,  and  shrinking  manner ;  and  he  saw,  at  a 
glance,  that,  unfitted  as  she  was  to  meet  the 
rude  shocks  of  life,  she  was  yet  the  child  of  sor- 
row. His  whole  heart  was  enlisted  for  her.  He 
gave  her  words  of  encouragement  and  cheer,  and^ 
a  promise  of  aid,  that  called  up  quick,  hot  tears 
to  the  poor  girl's  eyes,  that  she  would  fain  have 


I 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A   FAMILY. 


169 


hidden.  Finding  her  as  well  qualified  for  the 
situation  she  desired  as  she  had  been  represented, 
he  exerted  himself  actively  in  her  behalf,  and  so 
effectually,  that  she  was  the  successful  candidate 
for  the  vacant  school,  although  some  thirty  or 
forty  previous  applications  had  been  laid  before 
the  board ;  and  the  next  week  saw  her  installed 
in  her  new  office,  with  a  salary  of  some  three 
hundred  dollars  per  annum. 

And  now  Harriet's  kind  friend  gave  timely 
aid,  also,  to  her  mother.  Being  well  acquainted 
in  the  city,  she  introduced  Mrs.  Ward  to  a  large 
establishment,  extensively  engaged  in  the  manu- 
facture ot  various  garments,  which  gave  employ- 
ment to  some  hundred  or  more  of  women,  who 
were  paid  liberally  and  t  lomptly ;  and  here  Mrs. 
Ward  was  furnished  with  employment.  They 
were  now  lifted  out  of  their  former  difficulties ; 
their  expenses  were  reduced ;  they  had  an  income 
more  than  sufficient  for  their  needs,  if  managed 
with  good  thrift;  and  the  terrible  anxiety  that 
had  tugged  so  heavily  at  their  hearts  was  now 
removed.  They  formed  pleasant  acquaintances ; 
they  enrolled  themselves  as  members  of  a  relig- 
15 


170 


A   CHAPTER   FROlVf 


! 


ious  body,  of  their  o'vn  faith,  that  worshipped 
near  them.  James  and  Clarence  were  kept 
steadily  at  school.  Only  favorable  accounts 
were  received  from  them;  —  *^ey  were  grateful 
and  happy.  The  summer  passed  along  quietly 
and  pleasantly.  Harriet  was  successful,  in  ii?r 
new  vocation,  beyond  even  the  expectations  of  hcjr 
most  sanguine  friends.  Her  pupils  loved  hex; 
their  parents  respected  her ;  expressions  of  appro- 
bation were  largely  meted  out  to  her  by  the 
visiting  committee  of  her  school,  —  by  Dr.  Ar- 
nold, especially,  whose  visits  to  her  school-room 
were  not  "like  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  be- 
tween." He  manifested  a  great  and  strange 
interest  in  his  young  protegee,  and  seemed  never 
weary  of  encouraging  her,  —  of  assuring  her 
timid  and  fain^wi*^  heart,  and  of  aiding  her  in 
her  duties,  by  his  ^  i^i^dly  and  judicious  sugges- 
tions. Dignified,  elevated,  and  superior  as  he 
was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  youn^  girl,  —  of  mental 
and  moral  stature  that  towered  far  above  all 
whoi  she  knew,  —  there  was  yot  mingled  with 
his  loftiness  an  urbanity,  a  kindness,  a  gentle 
condescension,  that  soon  set  her  at  ease  with 


THE    HISTORY   OF   A    FAMILY. 


171 


him.  While  he  was  inspecting  her  method  of 
teaching,  and  the  progress  of  her  pupils,  she  felt 
not  in  the  presence  of  a  censor  or  stern  judge, 
but  in  that  of  a  friend  whose  praise  was  justly 
dear  to  her,  and  whose  strictures  w^ere  made  in 
kindness. 

Fall  came,  and  with  it  the  shadow  of  a  great 
grief  which  enshrouded  the  little  household. 
Clarence,  the  youngest  child,  whose  rapid  ad- 
vance in  his  studies  gave  promise  of  future  great- 
ness, while  his  heart  was  as  richly  endowed  with 
all  the  attributes  that  render  one  lovely  as  was 
his  mind  with  the  gifts  of  genius,  returned  from 
school,  one  afternoon,  with  a  flushed  cheek,  a 
wild  eye,  and  an  aching  head,  and,  complaining 
bitterly  of  illness,  sought  his  couch,  from  which 
he  v/ns  never  more  to  rise.  The  taint  of  a  con- 
tagious fever  had  already  corrupted  his  blood ;  the 
fires  of  disease  were  in  his  veins,  and  before  the 
dawn  of  the  next  day  he  was  wandering  through 
the  mazy  labyrinths  of  the  wildest  delirium. 
With  the  fii  it  gleam  of  light,  Harriet  summoned 
Dr,  A  moll  to  his  bedside,  beseeching  him  to 
haston  to  her  brother  ere  he  died.     The  sum- 


172 


A  CHAFTER  FROM 


mons  was  promptly  obeyed,  and  for  the  first  time 
the  benevolent  physician  entered  Mrs.  Ward's 
dwelling.  Amid  all  the  confusion  and  sadness 
incident  to  the  child's  sudden  sickness,  Dr.  Ar- 
nold could  not  but  observe,  even  then,  that  an 
unusual  air  of  refinement  was  apparent  in  the 
arrangement  and.  furnishing  of  the  humble  apart- 
ments, while  good  breeding  and  high  culture 
characterized  their  unpretending  occupants.  His 
whole  attention  was  given  to  the  little  suflferer, 
during  his  brief  but  painful  illness ;  but  neither 
his  skill  and  attention,  nor  the  prayers  of  his 
kindred,  could  avert  his  threatening  doom ;  and 
as  the  second  day  of  his  illness  closed  in  upon 
the  distressed  watchers  by  his  couch,  the  sleep 
that  knows  no  waking  sealed  his  eyes  in  dream- 
less slumber. 

The  grief  of  the  survivors  was  intense ;  it  was 
not  boisterous  nor  obtrusive,  but  deep  and  quiet. 
The  little  fellow's  presence  had  been  to  them 
sunlight  and  music,  and  it  seemed  as  if  earth 
were  robbed  of  its  brightness  and  melody,  now 
that  his  blue  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  pleasant 
voice  hushed  in  death.     There  was  little  to  di- 


THE    HISTORY   OF   A   FAMILY. 


173 


vert  their  minds  from  their  bereavement,  for  the 
poor  have  few  outward  sources  of  enjoyment,  and 
find  in  home  and  in  the  bosom  of  affection  their 
chief  happiness.  Few  came  in  to  sympathize 
with  them,  for  they  were  strangers.  Few  came 
to  follow  with  them  the  pale  sleeper  to  his  last 
resting-place.  Dr.  Arnold  proved  himself  an 
invaluable  friend  to  them ;  —  his  attentions  did 
not  end  with  the  life  of  his  patient ;  he  made  the 
last  sad  arrangements  for  the  obsequies  of  the 
dead ;  called  with  a  clergyman,  who  offered  them 
the  holy  consolations  of  religion ;  brought  "  pale 
flowers"  to  strew  over  the  faded  blossom  of 
earthly  being,  and  attended  himself  the  burial 
services,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  maiden 
sister,  who  wore  the  same  benign  and  noble 
countenance  as  her  brother.  Deeply  grateful 
for  his  unexpected  kindness,  Mrs.  Ward  was  yet 
astonished  at  it ;  —  she  could  not  understand  it, 
nor  divine  its  meaning.  There  were  others,  and 
among  them  their  friends  in  the  house,  who  saw 
more  clearly. 

The  first  stunninof  effects  of  this  bereavement 
were  hardly  over,  before  James,  the  other  son, 


174 


A  CHAPTER  FROM 


was  seized  with  the  same  malignant  type  of 
fever.  For  a  long  time  the  lad  hovered  between 
life  and  death.  There  were  moments  when  his 
breath  seemed  departing,  —  when  his  spirit- 
wings  seemed  already  out-spread  for  flight,  — 
and  when  hope  died  in  the  hearts  of  the  mother 
and  sister,  who  hung  over  him  with  anxious  as- 
siduity. But  the  skill  and  remedies,  which  could 
not  save  the  life  of  one,  availed  to  raise  from  the 
brink  of  the  open  grave  the  other;  and,  after 
weeks  of  ?uflbring,  the  widow's  son  began  to 
amend.  Careful  nursing  and  judicious  manage- 
ment gradually  brought  back  the  roundness  of 
his  cheek,  and  kindled  in  his  eye  the  fires  of 
returning  health ;  but  even  when  he  became  con- 
valescent, the  visits  of  his  physician  were  con- 
tinued. The  services  and  kindness  of  Dr.  Ar- 
nold had  filled  with  gratitude  the  hearts  of  Mrs. 
Ward  and  her  daughter.  Had  he  been  an  angel, 
their  regard  could  not  have  been  more  reveren- 
tial, their  gratitude  more  profound,  nor  their 
homage  more  religious. 

^But  when  his  visits  were  continued  after  the 
necessity  for  them  was  annulled  by  the  conva- 


THE   HISTOBY   OF  A   FAMILY. 


176 


lescence  of  her  son,  Mrs.  Ward  was  puzzled ;  and 
if  Harriet  was  not,  she  never  sought  to  enlighten 
her  mother  by  word  or  hint.  It  could  not  be 
that  the  doctor  found  any  attraction  in  their 
humble  abode;  it  could  not  be  for  the  pleasure 
of  her  conversation,  although  Mrs.  Ward  was 
cbliged  to  confess  that  his  discourse  was  mainly 
addressed  to  her ;  it  could  not  be  for  any  special 
interest  he  felt  in  Harriet ;  for,  though  he  loaned 
her  books  and  periodicals,  and  brought  her 
sheets  of  music,  and  never  left  without  craving  a 
song,  or  the  performance  of  some  new  or  favorite 
piece,  yet  this  was  easily  accounted  for,  as  the 
doctor  was  a  man  of  letters,  an  amateur  in 
ir  i^sic,  a  flutist  of  no  mean  order,  and  a  member 
of  two  or  three  musical  clubs.  It  was  incredible 
that  a  man  like  Dr.  Arnold,  —  over  thirty,  tall, 
dignified,  and  commanding,  highly  connected, 
with  a  considerable  fortune  and  a  large  practice, 
fliiiijg  many  honorable  and  lucrative  offices,  and 
who,  if  he  desired  to  marry,  might  choose  from 
the  rery  flower  of  the  city,  the  very  elite  of  the 
metropolis,  —  it  was  incredible  that  such  a  man 
should  look  with  special  or  tender  interest  on  a 


176 


A  CHAPTER   FROM 


II 


E  :^n 


girl  like  Harriet,  poor  and  humble  in  station,  a 
very  Mimosa  in  her  sensitiveness  and  timidity ; 
unknown,  unsought,  and  almost  iincared  for.  So 
reasoned  Mrs.  Ward,  somewhat  blindly,  to  be 
sure;  and  in  the  mean  time  Dr.  Arnold  called 
and  called,  always  when  Harriet  was  at  home, 
whose  blushes  and  downcast  eyes  seemed  to  indi- 
cate that  her  ease  and  self-possession  with  the 
physician  were  at  an  end. 

As  fall  deepened  into  winter,  circumstances 
occurred  Vhich  rendered  Dr.  Arnold's  visits  again 
necessary.  The  health  of  Harriet,  never  robust, 
had  become  greatly  impaired  through  the  watch- 
ings,  care,  and  labor,  iiicid'^nt  to  the  illness  of  her 
brothers ;  and,  before  she  had  at  all  recruited,  as 
soon  as  she  could  be  spared,  she  had  resumed 
her  labors  in  the  school-room.  The  heavy  drafts 
upon  their  purse  had  well-nigh  drained  it,  during 
the  sickness  and  death  that  had  visited  them; 
and,  in  the  desire  to  replenish  it,  they  often  plied 
the  needle  till  after  the  city  clocks  had  rung  out 
the  hour  of  midnight.  This  additional  labor,  at 
any  time,  was  too  much  for  the  frail  health  of 
Harriet ;  but  at  that  time  it  was  making  unwar* 


THE    HISTORY   OF   A  FAMILY, 


177 


rantable  dcmaaJs  upon  nature,  who,  thus  oiit- 
rnired,  was  keeping-  a  close  account  with  the 
ti^  orroggyj^  to  be  balanced  at  no  very  fl>.'i:iiw'. 
n*r  rs,g-day.  The  heavy  fogs,  pericuu:  ;)g: 
uaL  nd  driving  rains  and  sleets,  of  Novem- 
ber, ^.v^iupleted  the  prostration  of  her  health ;  and 
the  seeds  of  disease  sprang  up  noxiously  and 
rankly  in  her  system.  With  a  fevered  pulse,  a 
brain  whirling  in  strange  and  dizzying  activity, 
an  eye  like  a  wounded  eagle's,  and  a  cheek  that 
glowed  like  fire,  she  started  for  school,  one  morn- 
ing, sure  that  slie  was  not  well,  yet  unwilling  to 
confess  herself  ill.  But  the  duties  of  the  morn- 
ing were  not  half  over,  when  increasing  illness 
overcame  her,  and,  amid  the  receding  and  dying 
sounds  of  study  and  recitation,  she  sank  to  the 
floor  in  a  swoon.  Her  young  pupils  alarmed  the 
neighborhood  in  their  fright;  a  carriage  was  sent 
for,  and  poor  Harriet  was  conveyed  to  her 
mother's  dwelling,  seriously  indisposed. 

Her  disease  had  attacked  the  lungs,  and  after 
a  short  but  violent  fever,  it  appeared  to  abate, 
and  it  was  thought  she  would  soon  be  convales- 
cent.    These  hopes  were  not  realized.     A  cough 


.0^,  ** 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


// 


4^ 


m 


1.0 


■u  iii&  |Z2 
^   tiS.    12.0 


I.I 

L25  111114   11.6 


—    6" 


^^ 


^l!^ 


7: 


w 


y 


HiotDgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


f^ 


t 


'TB-;w^-rggy?yT;»!T^^gF't^ri^fyT'gwp^'y^^^  ^yi^ij^wmu^i,!  wiiii^|tftKWl'  ^i4tJWW»BiWBj5i^^rw 


178 


A  CHAPTER  FROM 


ensuedf  slight  at  first,  but  gradually  increasing  in 
violence ;  febrile  symptoms  returned,  and  by  and 
by  there  appeared  each  day,  on  the  emaciated 
cheek,  the  bright,  brilliant,  fearful  glow,  that 
tells  of  consumption.  The  large  blue  eye  dilated, 
and  grew  more  and  more  hollow  and  dazzling ; 
the  delicate  face  and  little  hands  blanched  and 
shrunk,  till  the  net-work  of  blue  veins  could  be 
seen  all  over  them,  and  they  were  as  diminutive 
as  a  girl  of  twelve  summers ;  while  the  moisture 
of  the  rich  brown  tresses  was  drunk  up  by  the 
fever-heat,  till  they  fell  off  from  the  white  tem- 
ples upon  the  pillow,  like  a  mass  of  golden 
threads.  Weeks  passed  away,  and  she  was  no 
better,  but  in  a  state  of  increasing  debility  and 
prostration.  Mrs.  Ward  became  alarmed ;  —  she 
recognized  in  her  daughter's  ailments  the  pre- 
cursors, if  not  the  attendants,  of  the  same  insidi* 
ous  pulmonary  complaint  that  had  bereft  her  of 
her  husband.  Dr.  Arnold  was  alarmed ;  he  had, 
from  the  first,  attended  her  most  carefully  and 
constantly,  but  now  he  summoned  the  best  medi- 
cal skill  of  the  city  to  her  bedside,  to  consult 
with  him  on  the  nature  of  his  patient's  disease* 


THE   BISTORT  OF  A  FAMILY. 


i7d 


and  the  remedial  agents  to  be  employed.  But 
still  the  sick  girl  amended  not ;  she  was  no  bet> 
ter;  patient,  resigned,  uncomplaining,  touchingly 
submissive,  she  lay  and  wasted  fearfully,  though 
gradually. 

The  poor  mother  turned  from  her  daughter's 
bedside,  with  an  expression  of  anguish  on  her 
face,  and  wrung  her  hands  despairingly ;  she  fol- 
lowed the  doctor's  footsteps,  whose  anguish  and 
anxiety  she  could  not  see,  so  blinded  was  she  by 
her  own  grief,  and  besought  him  for  the  hope 
that  in  his  heart  he  dared  not  cherish,  and  dared 
not  give  to  others ;  while  the  hours  that  passed 
into  eternity  went  laden  with  prayers,  and  tears, 
and  agonizing  wishes  for  her  darling's  life. 

To  add  to  her  distress,  her  finances  were  again 
exhausted,  with  no  present  means  of  replenishing 
them ;  and  while  pale-faced  sickness  sat  brooding 
in  her  dwelling,  and  the  fearful  angel  of  death 
was  watching  at  her  door,  gaunt  poverty  stalked 
again  among  them.  But  on  the  very  day  when 
her  last  cent  was  paid  out,  relief  came  from  an 
unknown  source ;  —  the  post-boy  brought  her  a 
note,  enclosing  a  fifty-dollar  bank-bill,  and  beg- 


180 


A  CHAPTER   FROM 


ging  its  acceptance  from  "a  friend."  With 
bewilderment,  with  thanks,  Mrs.  Ward  received 
the  gift,  regarding  it  as  a  direct  interposition  of 
Heaven,  but  hardly  guessing  its  real  source. 
She  did  not  imagine  herself  overheard  when  she 
sent  her  son  to  the  pawnbroker's  with  a  valuable 
brooch  that  she  had  worn  in  better  days,  nor 
could  she  easily  have  brought  herself  to  believe 
|hat  Dr.  Arnold  felt,  in  her  and  hers,  interest 
sufficient  to  induce  him  to  an  act  of  such  gene- 
rosity. 

It  was  a  long,  desolate  winter  to  the  poor 
woman,  who  saw,  with  harrowing  anxiety  and 
desolating  sorrow,  the  silent  dece  her  meek 
child.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  believe 
that  it  was  God's  will  her  idol  should  be  shat- 
tered ;  she  could  not  but  believe  that  God,  in  his 
mercy,  would  forbear  so  utterly  to  crush  her  life, 
as  to  remove  her  daughter  from  her.  All  the 
long  day,  and  the  yet  longer  night,  she  hovered 
over  the  pillow  of  her  uncomplaining  and  often 
unconscious  child,  ministering  to  her  as  affec- 
tionately, as  tenderly,  as  carefully,  as  only  a 
mother  can ;  while  from  her  heart  went  up  voice- 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  FAMILY. 


m 


less  but  passionate  ejaculations  to  Heaven,  — 
"  O  Father !  spare  her !  —  raise  her  from  death ! 
—  crush  me  not  so  utterly !  —  spare !  save ! 
heal!" 

March  came,  at  last,  —  the  first  month  of 
spring,  —  and  Harriet  seemed  lower  than  ever. 
Dr.  Arnold  saw,  with  infinite  pain,  that  the  strug- 
gle must  soon  be  decided  one  way  or  other,  — 
that  the  long-  contest  between  life  and  death 
must  soon  be  terminated.  Was  she  to  live,  or 
die  ?  O,  how  his  heart  prayed  for  the  healing 
airs  of  summer,  which  he  hoped  would  raise  the 
invalid,  if  her  life  could  be  prolonged  till  then ! 
How  his  brows  contracted  with  pain,  when 
balmy,  spring-like  days  were  followed  by  weather 
that  belonged  to  December !  Life  had  ebbed  so 
low  in  his  dear  patient,  that  it  was  like  the 
flickering  light  of  a  dying  lamp;  a  single 
breath  might  extinguish  it,  or  it  might  be  fed 
and  nursed  into  longer  continuance.  Never  had 
he  watched  over  a  patient  with  such  intense 
interest.  Hours  were  passed  beside  her  low 
couch;  he  seemed  more  like  a  nurse  than  a 
physician,  —  more  like  a  doting  parent  over  a 
16 


182 


A  CHAPTER   FROM 


petted  child,  than  a  medical  man  with  a  sick 
girl.  His  own  hand  smoothed  her  pillows,  and 
put  back  from  her  brow  the  bright  masses  of 
golden  hair;  now  he  administered  the  healing 
potions  he  prescribed,  and  now  he  sought  to 
tempt  her  appetite  with  some  delicate  nourish- 
ment. Always  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  low,  tender 
voice,  and  always  cheerfully.  The  dignified  and 
commanding  mien  which  had  so  awed  her,  in  her 
days  of  health,  was  completely  laid  aside ;  and 
even  while  Harriet  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
eternity,  her  whole  heart  went  out  to  him  in 
love.  And  at  times,  when  her  large  violet  eye 
was  raised  to  his  in  tearful  thankfulness,  and  her 
white  lip  quivered  with  words  of  gratitude,  moist- 
ure gathered  in  his  own  eyes,  and  his  lips 
pressed  her  pale  brow,  as  he  besought  her  to 
manifest  her  gratitude  by  speedy  recovery. 

April  came,  with  milder  airs  and  balmier 
skies.  Harriet  seemed  to  rally  a  little,  and  after 
a  time  Dr.  Arnold  ventured  to  assure  Mrs. 
Ward  that  he  could  perceive  in  his  patient  a 
change  for  the  better.  The  ashy,  death>like 
hue  had  passed  from  her  features,  leaving  her 


THE   HISTORY   OF  ▲  FAMILY. 


183 


frightfully  pale,  it  is  trae,  but  less  ghastly,  less 
corpse-like ;  —  the  hectic  fire  burned  less  fiercely 
on  her  cheek ;  her  mind  hovered  less  amid  the 
fanciful  and  unreal  creations  of  delirium;  she 
expressed  interest  in  matters  and  things  pertain- 
ing to  her  every-day  life,  —  asked  about  the 
weather,  her  school,  her  acquaintances,  and 
similar  other  matters.  No  language  can  express 
the  unutterable  gratitude  of  Mrs.  Ward's  heart. 
As  she  bowed,  now,  before  high  Heaven,  her  ori- 
sons were  but  fioods  of  grateful  tears. 

May  came,  with  yet  balmier  airs,  which  re- 
kindled the  long-prostrated  energies  of  the  yet 
feeble  girl.  She  now  could  sit  up ;  she  craved 
food ;  she  amused  herself  with  books,  and  some- 
times desired  her  arm-chair  to  be  drawn  to  the 
piano,  when  her  attenuated,  transparent  little 
fingers  ran  over  the  long-silent  keys,  bringing 
forth  from  thence  faint  gushes  of  melody.  The 
terrible  anxiety  for  her  life  was  now  over.  Dr. 
Arnold,  who  came  once  or  twice  a  day  to  see 
her,  —  most  physicians  would  have  discontinued 
their  visits  now,  dear  reader,  —  could  banter  her 
a  little  over  her  skeleton  proportions,  and  laugh- 


184 


▲  CHAPTER  FBOM 


ingly  predict  astonishing  increase  of  weight  and 
substance.  -  --   -     "^ 

At  last,  the  good  physician  gave  Harriet  per- 
mission to  take  a  drive ;  and,  more  than  this,  he 
came  to  the  door  in  his  own  chaise,  one  bright 
June  morning,  when  the  air  was  all  incense,  the 
earth  all  bloom  and  song  and  life,  and  lifting 
her  into  the  vehicle  as  if  she  were  a  mere  babe, 
drove  her  to  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  where  the 
fresh  air  of  the  country  came  to  her  like  the 
inspiration  of  health.  Again  and  again  were  the 
rides  repeated,  —  now  to  the  classic  grounds  of 
Cambridge,  and  now  to  the  hallowed  shades  of 
sweet  Auburn,  —  Dr.  Aniold  all  the  while  con- 
versing with  his  fair  companion,  and  often  upon 
topics  that  painted  the  deepest  carmine  on  her 
cheek,  and  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  raising 
her  eyes  to  his  face.  And  when  he  returned  her 
to  her  mother's  dwelling,  one  might  have  seen 
with  what  tender  solicitude  he  lifted  her  from 
the  chaise ;  and  that,  as  he  parted  with  her,  just 
inside  the  hall  door,  his  lips  met  —  not  her  brow 
—  but  her  rosy  lips,  which  bashfully  returned 
the  kiss  laid  upon  them.    What  did  it  all  mean  ? 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  FAMILY. 


186 


Mrs.  Ward  at  last  began  dimly  to  see  things  as 
they  were,  though  still  she  was  slow  to  believe 
what  the  whole  neighborhood  were  gossiping 
about,  —  the  attachment  of  Dr.  Arnold  and  her 
daughter.  By  and  by  Harriet  informed  her 
mother  that  her  school  had  been  given  to 
another,  adding,  with  painful  blushes,  which  did 
not  escape  the  notice  of  the  mother,  that  Dr.  Ar- 
nold advised  her  not  to  resume  teaching  again. 
A  few  days  later,  the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Ward 
were  closeted  together  for  a  long  time,  when  the 
latter  came  forth  from  the  interview  with  a 
beaming  face  and  tearful  eyes,  and,  clasping  her 
daughter  in  her  arms,  bestowed  a  benediction 
upon  her.  And  soon  Harriet  was  obi,  »•  ed  to  be 
deep  in  the  mysteries  of  millinery  and  dress- 
making, threading  Washington-street  for  the 
prettiest  and  most  appropriate  fabrics,  and  con- 
sulting about  modes  and  fashions  with  her  digni- 
fied friend,  the  doctor,  who  still  continued  his 
visits  at  Mrs.  Ward's,  though  no  one  now  re- 
quired his  medical  attention.  Some  great  event 
was  evidently  approaching. 

"  How  is  that  little  patient  of  yours,  brother  ?  " 
16# 


186 


A  CHAPTER  FROM 


asked  the  maiden  sister  to  whom  we  hare  before 
referred,  as  Dr.  Arnold  and  she  sat  together,  a 
few  evenings  after.  "  I  refer  to  the  one  whotie 
brother's  funeral  I  attended,  —  Harriet  Ward; 
has  she  regamed  her  health  ? " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  with  animation; 
"she  is  quite  well  now.  She  has  improved 
wonderfully,  this  last  month." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  was  the  rejoinder ; 
"  for  her  poor  mother's  sake,  I  am  glad  she  has 
recovered." 

"  And  I  am  glad  for  my  own  sake,"  frankly 
and  calmly  avowed  the  doctor.  "Harriet's  life 
has  become  very  dear  to  me.  Through  the 
winter,  I  thought  it  impossible  for  her  to  recover ; 
but,  in  the  beautiful  language  of,  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Browning,  whose  sonnets  you  were  reading 
to  me  last  evening,  she  has         _      .        » 

«  'yielded  the  grave,  for  my  sake,  and  exchanged 

Her  near,  sweet  view  of  heaven,  for  earth  with  me.'  " 


"Why,  brother!  what  do  you  say?  Have 
you  considered  all  the  consequences  of  a  mar- 
riage with  Harriet  Ward  ? " 


THB   HISTORY   OF   A   FAMILY. 


187 


"  Consequences !  What  consequences  can  en- 
9ue,  but  pleasant  ones, — happiness  to  both  of 
us?" 

"  Yes ;  but  what  will  the  world  say  ?  " 

"  0,  as  to  that,  it  may  say  what  it  pleases. 
A  man  marries  to  please  himself,  not  to  suit  the 
hollow-hearted,  the  knaves  and  simpletons,  who 
compose  'the  world.'  Among  all  the  ladies 
whom  I  know,  Harriet  Ward  is  my  preference. 
We  are  attached ;  we  believe  we  shall  be  happy 
together.  I  am  in  circumstances  to  marry, — 
and  who  is  there  to  say  *  nay '  ?" 

"  Well,"  replied  the  sister,  musing  a  moment, 
"you  are  right.  If  Harriet  Ward  is  all  you 
describe  her,  she  is  not  unworthy  of  you ;  and 
her  humble  station  in  life  does  not  disgrace  her. 
But  few,  however,  will  coincide  with  this 
opinion.     But  when  am  I  to  lose  my  brother  ? " 

"You  will  gain  a  sister,  not  lose  a  brother, 
some  time  in  the  early  fall.  Mrs.  Ward  has 
agreed  to  become  our  housekeeper,  at  least  till 
Harriet  is  well  enough,  and  sufficiently  compe- 
tent to  take  the  head  of  affairs  herself.  And 
when  we  are  all  well  domesticated  in  our  new 


186 


HISTORY   OF  A   FAMILY. 


home,  you  must  come  and  see  for  yourself  if  my 
ideas  and  expectations  of  happiness  are  at  all 
Utopian."  '      " 

And  now,  reader,  in  conclusion,  —  if  that  can 
be  called  "  a  conclusion  wherein  nothing  is  con- 
cluded,"—  let  me  assure  you  that  Dr.  Arnold 
never  repented  his  forgetfulness  of  caste,  and  the 
artificial  distinctions  of  society,  in  his  choice  of  a 
wife ;  and  that  the  great  '*  world,"  even,  soon  for- 
got to  laugh,  in  its  eagerness  to  do  homage  to 
the  beautiful  bride;  and  ceased  to  sneer,  as  it 
was  compelled  to  testify  to  the  grace,  goodness, 
and  genius,  of  her  whom  all  loved  and  esteemed. 
:^-iv    ih^  >'•    '•--'-'■'     ■••■-•■   '''■[.  z'^'  '     . 


.    :4V 


} . 


:<.>rv'   $-.'  ■■^'':^  .H^M     .mi 


■  t 


.,   i..r..i 


,j-,  ^■ 


'■\f;>>^'" 


.—  *  •■  .7    ..'*' 


.p*' 


't 


-■..     ;'(",fi'r 


-1  ^  ' 


''**l 


'•  » 


.li 


THE  ANNIVERSARY. 


BT    JAMlg    LUMBARD. 

A  YEAR  of  shifting  scenes  has  gone 

To  dwell  entombed  with  ages  fled, 
Since  thou  wert  taken,  gentle  one, 
To  slumber  with  the  silent  dead. 
A  year  has  gone,  —  and  yet  it  seems 
,^  A  little  while  since  thou  wert  here. 
Engaging  in  the  toils  and  schemes 
Of  this  convulsed  and  darkened  sphere. 


•^ 


'T  is  hard  to  think  that  thou  art  gone 

Forever  from  our  earthly  ken,  — 
That  we  shall  never  look  upon 

Thy  dear  familiar  form  again. 
We  cannot  think  thy  spirit  passed 

To  that  mysterious  realm  above. 
That  thy  warm  heart  is  cold  at  last. 

So  lately  full  of  hope  and  love. 


190 


THE   ANNIVERSARY. 


But  thou  art  in  the  charnel  dark, 

Its  damp  mould  on  thy  bosom  prest, 
And  flowering  shrubs  are  all  that  mark 

The  spot  where  thou  art  laid  to  rest ; 
But  on  the  souPs  white  tablature, 

Engi-ayed  in  characters  of  light, 
Thy  many  virtues  shall  endure, 

As  fadeless  as  the  stars  of  night. 


:^ 


Full  many  fairer  forms  may  throng 

The  path  that  now  before  us  opes. 
With  winning  words  and  witching  song,  ' 

To  thrill  our  hearts  with  sunniest  hopes ; 
But,  oh !  we  never  can  forget 

The  friend  of  our  serenest  days. 
Whose  orb  of  being  darkly  set. 

And  faded  from  our  tearful  gaze. 


Full  many  a  long  and  weary  year 
May  toil  adown  oblivion's  steep, 

Ere  we  shall  close  our  journey  here, 
And  in  the  grave's  still  darkness  sleep ; 


i  fiVJwJu  e  ;<■  riSi-^-ielW  iv^  ti"i.5"3Bl 


K'ia,i^„^^i;j^liiAhi 


THE   ANNIVERSARY. 


191 


;W^- 


But  graven  on  our  heart  of  hearts 
The  memory  of  thy  worth  shall  be, 

Until  each  waiting  soul  departs, 
To  dwell  forevermore  with  thee ! 


"¥• 


^m 


if 
NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SON. 

BT    MBS.    M.  A.     LIYEBMOBE. 

He  held  his  son  within  his  arms;  — 

Not  with  the  reverent  love, 
Not  with  the  gushing  tenderness, 

A  mother's  heart  doth  move. 
No  benediction  from  his  lips 

Greeted  the  princely  boy ;  ) 

But  proud,  ambitious,  lofty  schemes 

Were  blended  with  his  joy. 


-') 


"  0  King  of  Rome ! "  the  father  mused, 
*  «;       When  gazing  on  his  son, 
"  Resplendent  glory  waits  to  gild 
The  life  thou  hast  begun. 
Thy  father's  hand  has  hewn  the  way 
;,      Up  to  the  Gallic  throne; 
And  all  o'er  which  thy  France  bears  sway 
Is  thine,  and  thine  alone ! 


sway 


•..*;■ 


<•♦ 


#: 


:  s.'>v, '  .:^'ij'»''* 


*!■    Mas*     ^.3.,     Ifr  y,ViMQRlt. 

Mr-  helj  hb  -".wi  within  his  .ime ;  -— 

No  !   it,edktii/i>  firf^w  ^/.h  lijT«? 
'-  ^  ■  ^'ete^i  th#,^irifMw|y'  boy  ; 


4 


I 


"-0  Euii;  f»'  "     ..•   "  the  fflther  rnus^il, 
,    ,  W hfcu  r;-^!^?  on  hi?3  son,        !$, 
■**■  B^apl<*H4'.- . .- ;  ^ . v» ry  .waits  '#gii(l 

Tfay  fftllt^'t.  handjisi'?  hewn  thf  way 

tJp  to  the  Gal; ;c  throne'; 
And  all  o'^v  x'tikhmy  Ftv-  •   'K-srin-:  swav 

Is  thiiHS  a«4  thir>t5' 


'm-  ■  ■ 


;y-. 


1^ 


f^Af^(n)[L[i:(n)r]^  awld)  Ki'Dg  ^@n 


MAPOLBON  AND  HIS  SOH. 


<<  Th«  purple  of  the  Caaan  thim, 

And  thine  die  MoorMi  land,— > 
IMvetia  locked  in  fastneaees, 

By  mountains  bdd  and  gvand. 
And  soon  the  sceptre  of  the  Czars 

I  *11  proudly  give  to  thee ; 
And  Albion,  with  her  world-wide  flag, 

Shall  bend  to  thee  the  knee. 


"And  where  my  eagles  perch  aloft, 

Their  conquering  pinions  furled. 
Thy  rule  shall  be,  till  thou  shalt  wear  ^ 

*  The  purple  of  the  world !  * 
O !  men  shall  bow  bewildered  down 

Before  thy  dazzling  state ; 
And  earth  shall  own  thee,  with  acclaim. 

Her  mightiest  Potentate ! " 


Vain  boast  and  empty !  came  there  then 

No  shade  of  Waterloo, 
The  ensanguined  field,  where  death  and 
shame 
So  rankly,  thickly  grew  ? 
17 


<ia4 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SON. 


f 


Came  there  no  ocean  moan  or  waili  0 
From  off  that  "  sea-girt  isle,"      ^ 

Where  death,  in  lonely  terrors  clad,  ^ 
Was  waiting  thee  the  while  ?      ,4 


Did  shadows  of  the  early  tomb 


y:  <M 


mH 


That  gulfed  thy  royal  heir 
Not  stretch  across  the  horoscope   ^ 

Thou  saw'st  so  bright  and  clear  ? 
An  exile  from  his  beauteous  France — 

An  alien  from  his  home  — ' 
His  heritage  a  blighted  heart, —      ^^^  (; 

This,  this  his  early  doom !      ,./;  j. 


^ isf§^^^  t^mi: 


i:i>.m 


•Ti 


As  sink  within  the  troubled  sea 


Vf. 


"'  The  wrecks  of  vessels  grand, 
So,  in  the  storm  by  thee  evoked. 

Which  fiercely  swept  the  land, — 
Now  toppling  thrones  from  dizziest  heights, 

And  now  uncrowning  kings,  — 
Now  trampling  men  on  war's  red  plains. 

As  they  were  worthless  things,  — 


•m  "'^^ 


1-i 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SON. 

In  that  wild  storm  thy  star  went  down, 
In  night  that  knows  no  mom ; 

Like  chaff  from  off  the  threshing-floor, 
Thy  proudest  schemes  were  borne. 

Ah  !  let  us  pause,  and  learn  of  thee 

^    How  weak  is  human  might,     *  ^. 

When  daring  to  contend  with  God, 
Or  battle  with  the  right !  J 

yv,  m*'.\  "i^y  #«'i^  '*s%W'^#lf  .'^'tM* 


105 


4*^,-rt. 


.   vafpM 


3>      If^i  - 


».  ^}  r**i;i;  t 


t*^' 


Ih 


'    'Ll- 


f.. 


THE  PILOT.  •  ry  i 

BT   MmS.    X.    A.    LiyBfiMOKS. 

"  O'er  a  wide  and  troubled  ocean, 

Oft  with  storms  and  tempests  dark, 
Tossed  by  winds'  and  waves'  commotion, 

I  have  steered  my  little  bark. 
All  in  shreds  the  sails  are  tattered, 

Splintered  every  towering  mast,  — 
Masts  and  spars  and  sails  all  shattered 

By  the  fierceness  of  the  blast. 

«  Many  a  foaming  mountain  billow 

Has  broke  o'er  the  trembling  deck; 
And  I  have  forgot  my  pillow, 

Watching  for  the  whelming  wreck. 
And  the  red  and  hissing  lightning 

Hath  scarred  all  its  timbers  o'er ;  — 
On  the  ocean  curling,  whitening, 

I  can  trust  my  bark  no  more ! 


r-X! 


THE   PILOT. 


wt 


"  Now  without  the  harbor  riding, 

Here  the  pilot's  boat  I  wait ', 
And,  alas !  the  day  is  gliding 

Down  the  west,  in  regal  state. 
Shall  I  never  reach  the  haven  ? 

Ne'er  at  anchor  calmly  lie  ? 
O,  good  pilot !  haste  thee  hither,  — 

Pass  me  not  unnoticed  by ! "        , 

Lo,  he  comes,  the  fearful  boatman ! 

At  the  sailor's  eager  beck. 
Wide  he  cleaves  the  gloomy  waters, 

Climbing  to  the  tottering  deck. 
Stem,  unspeaking,  strong,  gigantic, 

Now  he  guides  the  loosened  helm. 
Where  the  ever-thundering  breakers 

Seek  the  bark  to  overwhelm. 


Darker  falls  the  night  about  them. 
Fiercer  grows  the  pilot's  mien, — 

Blackness  o'er  and  underneath  them. 
Not  a  glimmering  star  is  seen ; 

While  more  hoarsely  roar  the  billows, 
And  more  furious  howls  the  gale  — 
17* 


196 


TRB  PILOT. 


Ah !  the  sailor's  heart  has  faintedi 
And  his  cheek  is  ashy  pale. 

i  .  ;  k  ... 

"  Pilot,  thou  wilt  strand  my  vessel ! 
I  shall  he  a  cast-away!    '*  '   ••"" 
And  my  bark,  that 's  crossed  the  ocean, 
Will  not  see  another  day ! " 
"  Peace !  thou  timid,  trembling  sailor ! 
I  have  sailed  this  sea  before ; 
And  no  vessel  makes  the  harbor, 


fiJ: 


But  is  piloted  by  me ! 


f 


■■f.X'     '.rf*' 


"  Never  yet  a  ship  has  stranded      ^^^, 

On  this  wild  and  surge-washed  coast ; 
Into  port  each  vessel  rideth  — 

Not  a  shallop  has  been  lost !  '* 
Still  the  sailor's  heart  beat  wildly, 

With  his  agonizing  fear, 
And  he  looked,  with  sad  fo"t I  mVj.^. 

For  the  morning  to  appear.  ^^  ^^\i 


*''<X.,     lM    -''■■f^     :.-  -•■'■ 


^^^.l'^' 


Morning  came  at  last.    The  waters 
VT'Id  and  troubled  were  no  more  j 


THE    PILOT. 


190 


And  before  them,  bathed  in  beauty, 
Stretched  a  green  and  sunny  shore. 

Songs  came  floating  down  the  hill-sides^ 
Incense  on  the  air  was  home. 

And  the  country  smiled  like  Eden, 
In  the  rosy  light  of  mom.  o 

And  the  pilgrim  saw,  with  wonder, 

Standing  on  the  radiant  shore. 
Friends  who  crossed  the  main  before  hini, 

Friends  who  long  had  gone  before. 
With  white  hands  they  cheered  him  onward. 

Waved  him  many  a  welcome  warm ; — 
Was  it  thus  his  voyage  ended. 

Voyage  long  of  wind  and  storm  ? 

Wondering  turns  he  to  the  pilot,  — 

Not  a  fearful  presence  now,  — 
Beauty  dwelt  in  every  feature. 

Peace  and  calmness  crowned  his  brow. 
"  Pilot,  what 's  the  land  before  us. 

Where  there  waits  a  shining  band  ?  " 
"  Lo ! "  the  pilot  said,  with  sweetness, 
"  'T  is  the  beauteous  spirit-land  ! " 


,',-iEtiia 


200 


THE   PILOT. 


*'  And  thy  imme,  mysterious  pilot  ? 
Now  thou  seem'st  an  angel  bright ; 
Yet  thy  presence  chilled  my  spirit, 
In  tho  dark  of  yesternight." 
**  Drath  !  the  fearful  name  they  call  me ! 
Fare  thco  well !  thou  'rt  safely  o'er ! 
And  my  mission  now  is  ended, 
For  I  may  not  tread  the  shore ! " 


»!•:' 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SOUL. 


VT    niSV.    R.    TOMLINSON. 


By  the  term  soul,  we  mean  that  mental,  think- 
ing part  of  our  natures,  which  distinguishen  .us 
from  all  other  orders  of  animated  earthly  being, 
and  allies  us  to  a  higher,  brighter  order,  in  a 
better,  fairer  clime  than  any  known  this  side  the 
grave.  By  it  wo  would  designate  that  part  of 
ourselves  which  many  have  been  pleased  to 
term  immortal,  whose  existence,  consequently, 
cannot  be  affected,  in  any  important  respect,  by 
the  changes  we  are  certain  will  come  to  our 
material  organization.  It  is  that  to  which  all 
virtuous  appeals  are  made,  which  recognizes 
beauty  and  glory  in  the  Creator's  works,  and  is 
capable  of  admiration,  reverence  and  love,  and 
of  commanding,  through  these,  every  other  power 
common  to  our  nature.  This  also  gives  a  con- 
sciousness of  obligation,  acknowledges  duty,  ac- 
cepts all  service  rightfully  claimed,  and  is  active 


202 


THE   HOME    OF  THE    SOUL. 


in  every  department  of  goodness  with  which  it 
becomes  acquainted.  And,  when  allowed  its  le- 
gitimate authority,  it  moves,  directs,  controls  and 
accomplishes,  all  that  is  essential  to  its  own  and 
the  happiness  of  every  other  being  connected  with 
it  in  social  relations. 

This  we  are  pleased  to  denominate  the  soul  — 
whose  home  we  desire  so  to  contemplate  as  to 
become  familiar  with  it,  improve  our  spiritual 
affections,  gain  strength  and  permanency  of  faith, 
and  the  inspiration  of  a  triumphant  hope,  by  the 
great  lessons  which  it  teaches. 

That  all  these  are  attainable,  we  are  taught  by 
the  experience  of  many  who  have  lived  and  died, 
and  many  who  now  live  and  rejoice  in  their 
power ;  —  and  not  only  by  such  a  history  are  we 
taught  it,  but  that  revelation  which  God  hath 
given  us,  in  much  mercy,  to  direct  our  understand- 
ings and  sanctify  all  our  affections,  furnishes 
Divine  lessons,  and  makes  bright  the  way  leading 
to  them. 

What  is,  then,  the  home  of  the  soul  ?  Where 
is  it,  that  we  should  seek  to  know  of  it  ? 

For  a  time,  the  body  is  its  habitation ;  —  hence 


THE   HOME   OF  THE   SOUL. 


203 


it  is  amid  the  things  that  are  temporal.  "  At 
home  in  the  body,"  said  one  inspired  of  heaven, 
though  exalted  in  spirit  by  the  anticipation  of 
another  dwelling-place.  "Our  earthly  taberna- 
cle," is  another  expression  which  he  has  employed 
to  describe  the  present  habitation  of  the  soul, — 
intimating  clearly  and  significantly  God's  prepa- 
ration of  a  building  for  it  unlike  the  present  in 
every  important  particular. 

This  is  not  its  permanent  habitation,  —  not  its 
ever-continuing  home.  It  is  only  its  temporary 
residence,  for  important  purposes,  doubtless,  which 
we  shall  better  understand  in  the  subsequent  un- 
folding of  our  Father's  benevolent  designs.  It  is 
here  subject  to  various  infirmities  and  trials,  to 
many  temptations  and  buffetings,  to  many  perse- 
cutions and  burdens,  to  many  scenes  of  affliction 
and  death;  consequently  a  call  is  made  upon 
all  its  powers  of  resistance,  upon  all  its  sympa- 
thies and  charities,  and  upon  all  its  faith  and 
hope. 

These  exercises  have  their  uses,  doubtless, 
many  of  which  we  can  readily  comprehend  and 
appreciate.     By  them,  these  virtues  increase  in 


fm 


THE  HOMB  OF  THE  SOUL. 


power,  are  disciplined  to  Divine  services,  are  made 
fipkmiliar  with  the  practical  applications  of  grace, 
and  obtain  a  confidence  and  trust  which  could 
not  be  found  through  any  other  search,  and  are 
fitted,  consequently,  for  more  exalted  companion- 
ships, and  more  perfect  joys,      i,  .,),.> 

This  vision  may  satisfy  the  mind  inquiring  for 
the  reasons  of  the  souPs  present  intimate  rela- 
tions ;  in  part  it  may  answer  questions  proposed, 
and  secure  a  patient  striving  and  waiting  for  that 
more  perfect  promised:  —  "Now  we  know  in 
part,"  "  We  see  as  through  a  glass  darkly,"  hop- 
ing for  a  larger  knowledge,  and  a  better  sight. 

This  is  the  condition  of  the  soul  in  its  present 
habitation ;  and  though  its  life  is  not  derived  in 
any  considerable  degree  from  it,  it  is  essentially 
modified  by  it.  Sometimes,  however,  it  becomes, 
as  it  were,  independent  of  these  conditions,  by 
a  forgetfulness  of  them,  produced  by  spiritual 
contemplation  and  devotional  communion.  Then 
it  lives  not  in  the  body,  but  in  and  with  Christ, 
having  a  foretaste  of  the  blessing  anticipated.  It 
is  absent,  iu  effect,  from  the  body,  and  is  present 
with  the    Lord;   and  how  precious  are  these 


THE   HOME   OF  THE   SOITL. 


^66 


seasons  to  every  spiritaal  soul !  They  bring  to 
it  a  deeper,  truer  life,  fill  it  with  devotion  and 
Divine  aspirations,  and  are  the  medium  through 
which  the  joys  of  heaven  are  participated,  and 
angels  come  to  make  their  abode  with  it.  They 
furnish  evidences  of  the  possible  deliverance  of 
the  soul  from  the  slavery  of  the  passions,  and 
from  the  bondage  of  sin,  and  of  its  complete  tri- 
umph over  the  desires  of  the  earthly  man.  For, 
if  through  their  instrumentality  its  affections  and 
thoughts  are  perfectly  engrossed  a  single  moment, 
by  a  continued  appeal  of  the  same  power,  they 
may  be  enraptured  still  longer,  and  yet  longer 
upon  every  successive  appeal,  until  their  aspira- 
tion is  the  main-spring  of,  and  spiritualizes,  every 
action. 

When  thus  exalted,  the  soul  has  a  life  beyond 
and  without  its  earthly  habitations ;  "  has  meat 
that  it  knows  of," — not  the  manna  of  the  wilder- 
ness, "  but  the  bread  of  God  which  cometh  down 
from  heaven  and  giveth  light  to  the  world."  But 
this,  though  its  appropriate  sphere,  and  its  true 
position  in  this  world  of  duties  and  conflicts,  is 
not  its  divinest  home. 
18 


\ 


;^ 


906 


THE  ROME  OF  THE  SOUL. 


"  A  building  of  God,  an  house  not  made  with 
hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens,"  awaits  it.  A 
glorious  habitation  is  prepared  for  it ;  one  incor- 
ruptible and  immortal,  which  it  is  certain  to  pos- 
sess when  the  present  perishes  by  its  inj&rmities 
and  weaknesses,  and  by  what  is  familiarly  called 


death. 


'iiii:^t^it:M-r -Ai^t!:i,ii^      t>'itb':-i^i.j^AiJi-    'STx^Af,^  -.U«£k 


Here  the  confidence  of  the  Apostle  may  assist 
y^  qui  thought  and  faith :  —  "  We  know  that  if  our 
earthly  house  of  this  tabernacle  were  dissolved, 
we  have  a  building  of  God ; "  "  Mortality  shall 
be  swallowed  up  of  life ; "  "  He  that  hath  wrought 
us  for  the  self-same  thing  is  God ; "  "  We  are 
confident,  therefore,  and  willing  to  be  absent  from 
the  body,  and  to  be  present  with  the  Lord."  And 
the  Master  hath  spoken  encouragingly  to  all  who 
trust  his  words  and  receive  his  gracious  promises. 
Said  he  to  his  disciples,  under  circumstances  of 
much  afiiiction,  "  Let  not  your  h-.-'t  be  troubled : 
ye  believe  in  God, — believe  also  in  me.  In  my 
Father's  house  are  many  mansions :  if  it  were 
not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare  a 
place  for  you.    And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place 


THB   HOME   OF  THE   SOUL. 


207 


for  you,  I  will  come  again,  and  receive  you  unto 
myself;  that  where  I  am  there  ye  may  be  also." 
*'*'  Our  faith  is  assisted  by  such  heavenly  assur- 
ances, and  a  hope  is  inspired  that  when  the 
scenes  of  this  troubled  life  are  o'er,  the  soul  will 
find  a  home  in  heaven,  where  storms  and  tem- 
pests are  unknown,  and  all  is  peace  and  joy.  To 
that  home  it  is  destined ;  —  for  it  was  created 
with  all  its  yearning  powers,  its  swelling  sympa- 
thies,  and  deathless  aspirations.  It  sometimes 
feds  its  immortality  begun,  and  takes  possession 
of  the  joy ;  but  this,  in  the  brightest  moments  of 
its  spiritual  life,  can  be  only  a  lUtle  foretaste  of 
that  which  shall  be  when  mortality  is  swallowed 
up  in  immortal  fruition.  The  largest  anticipa- 
tion of  the  soul  will  fall  infinitely  short  of  the 
realities  of  that  home  to  which  we  go ;  for  is  it 
not  written,  "  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard, 
neither  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man,  the 
things  which  God  hath  prepared  for  them  that 
love  him"  ? 

•  He  can  gather  only  some  fsdnt  shadows  of  the 
beauties  and  glories  of  that  land,  through  the 
inspiration  of  our  faith,  and  the  imperfect  com- 


m 


THB   HOMB   OF  TPS   SQVL. 


parisQos  which  we  are  allowed  to  make  between 
it  and  earthly  things.  We  can  say  of  it,  it  has 
no  night  of  darkness  and  sonow,  for  the  Lord 
God  is  its  everlasting  light.  It  has  no  sickness 
or  pain,  but  perpetual  health.  It  has  no  mourn- 
ing, but  an  ever-increasing  joy.  It  has  no  death, 
for  its  life  is  immortal,  like  the  angels  that  bend 
in  sweet  sulnnission  before  the  eternal  throne. 
It  has  immortal  capacities,  and  instructions  and 
duties  worthy  of  them.  It  has  teachers  of  infi- 
nite understandings,  and  companionship  perfect 
in  purity,  whose  every  thought  and  word  is  but  a 
reflection  of  the  eternal  Mind,  ^hose  every  desire 
is  the  will  of  God,  and  the  consummation  of  his 
great  purposes.  The  loved  of  every  land  and 
clime  are  there,  happy  in  their  glory  and  glori- 
ous in  their  happiness,  —  loving  still,  and  better 
than  before,  and  still  advancing  in  the  measure 
of  their  power,  and  in  the  graces  of  an  incorrupti- 
ble existence.  ;     i  t    t.^  .  ^      ^      ?j^ 

The  cruel  distinctions  of  this  world  are  there 
unknown.  That  home  has  no  rich  and  poor,  no 
masters  and  slaves,  no  bond  and  free ;  but  all  are 
one  in  Christ,  and  God  is  all  in  all.    ^  'eimm:^v:k 


THE  HOBIE  OF  THS  80VX.. 


209 


•  This  is  the  hoipe  of  the  soul;  a  glorious, 
deathless  home,  which  knows  no  withered  joys, 
;i;io|r  parting  hours,  —  no  disappointed  trust,  nor 
blasted  hope.  It  is  the  home  of  heaven.  Be- 
hold iti  weary  pilgrims,  burdened  with  the  cares 
pf  life,  —  its  conflicts,  strifes,  and  woes !  Wel- 
come the  anticipations  it  inspires,  the  encourage- 
mei^t  it  gives,  the  patience  it  secures ;  and  wait  in 
cheerfulness  the  period  of  release.  Time's  never- 
tarrying  wheels  will  bring  it  speedily.  The 
Father's  good  pleasure  will  be  done,  and  the 
kingdom  will  be  yours.      ^..^m-.- 

Pondman,  behold  it !  and  allow  the  vision  to 
cMer  thee*  Verily  thou  art  a  child  of  God,  an 
heir  of  heaven,  and  shalt  ere  long  partake  the 
joys  denied  thee  here.  It  is  a  thorny  way  thou 
goest.  Oppression's  hand  is  heavy  on  thee  now; 
The  stripes  inflicted,  and  the  chains  thou  bearest, 
are  burdens  cruelly  unjust ;  but  patiently  endure 
the  evils  from  which  thou  canst  not  yet  escape,  ^ 
and  give  the  soul  its  triumph  in  the  thought  that 
there  are  ages  of  infinite  delight  for  all  thou  suf- 
ferest  here.  By  divinest  dispensation  thou  wilt 
be  a  freeman  yet,  —  a  freeman  made  immortal, 
18* 


■^*-\ 


.'l 


i^lO 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SOUL. 


—  yea,  more,  —  a  king  and  priest  of  God's  for- 
ever. Faint  not, —  wait  in  hope.  ^'^  '"■' 
m  Oppressor,  behold  it !  and  be  inspired  by  it  to 
a  better,  truer  life.  Let  it  teach  thee  that  he 
whom  thou  crushest  is  thy  brother,  beloved  of 
thy  Father,  and,  if  weaker  than  thyself,  den^ands 
thy  pity,  not  thy  scorn  and  hate.  Break  not 
him  by  thine  oppressions  whom  thou  wilt  meet 
'  in  heaven,  and  who,  perhaps,  will  be  thy  com- 
panion,—  teacher,  —  at  least,  thy  friend  and 
brother,  —  an  equal  sharer  with  thee  of  spiritual 
joy.  Truly,  heaven  is  thy  horo.3  and  his,  as  God 
is  his  and  thy  Father.  Why  shouldst  thou  thus 
oppress  him,  and  dig  for  him  the  pit,  and  make 
him  grind  continually  in  the  prison-house  ? 
Bridge  o'er  the  gulf  that  separates  thee  ere  thou 
shalt  pass  the  swelling  flood,  beyond  which  God 
will  make  thee  one,  and  he  no  longer  slave,  but 
child  of  God  immortal.  The  vision  of  that 
future  home  will  make  the  spirit  of  the  present 
like  it,  and  purify  the  soul,  as  Christ  is  pure. 
1  Wanderer  from  the  way  of  virtue,  behold  it! 
and  in  it  the  angel-spirit  of  a  mother,  sister, 
brother,  who,  watching  o'er  thee,  and  knowing 


THE   HOME   OP   THE   SOUL. 


811 


thy  temptations,  prayeth  that  redemption  may  be 
thine,  and  spiritual  life.  Thou  canst  not  sin  with 
that  immortal  eye  upon  thee,  and  while  conscious 
of  the  prayer  that  goes  unceasingly  to  God,  in 
thy  behalf.  Thou  wilt  not  be  a  slave  to  evil, 
knowing  the  immortal  family  of  which  thou  art  a 
member,  and  the  immortal  destiny  that  awaits 
thee.  The  inspiration  of  the  thought  will  break 
the  bondage  of  the  spirit,  and  make  thee  truly 
free.  , 

Mourner,  there  are  thy  loved  ones,  pure  and 
happy,  feasting  upon  spiritual  meat,  and  drinking 
in  the  flowing  waters  of  immortal  love.  Be  com- 
forted ;  —  no  evil  can  betide  them.  Soon  thou 
wilt  join  them,  and  form  one  perfect  family  in 
heaven. 

Dying  mortal,  pray  for  this  vision,  that  hope 
may  swell  the  sail  of  thy  frail  bark,  as  it  swiftly 
glides  over  the  uncertain  sea  of  human  life,  and 
prepare  thee  well  for  that  dark  shore  toward 
which  thou  art  hastening,  and  from  which  pil- 
grims start,  sometimes,  afirighted,  for  their  im- 
mortal home,  —  "a  city  which  hath  foundations 
whose  maker  and  builder  is  God."  ^  ^  •*> 


m 


TBI  H01l£  Of  THE  SOUL. 


M 


'-'  These  are  the  contemplations  awakened  by  a 
view  of  heaven  as  the  home  of  the  soul,  and 
reveal  some  of  the  practical  influences  of  that 
cheering  faith.  The  Apostle  hath  rightly  said 
of  them,  "  Every  man  that  hath  this  hope  in  him 
purifieth  himself,  even  as  He  is  pure."  r     r/^j^^r^w 

^#-mr^    ,nip«'-4f  r>i''!«^?c$  tw*-- ■'**'■?'  ^M'^  •  ■t-^-.ytJi^ 

I 


*4i.  '«<«  ¥^im^  %^^    ^l«lt 


^  THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  LITTLE  PRIENI).  ***" 


:fii.-«»t«r' -.  2, 


Bx  MXBi  iLiiABixa  soxyv. 


Tub  eveningf  twilight  had  faded  from  the 
walls  of  a  cheerful  New  England  home,  and 
now  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  the  little  family  had 
gathered  near  the  fire.  Mr.  Upton,  the  husband 
And  father,  was  reading  the  evening  papers.  He 
was  a  man  of  sound  judgment,  clear  intellect, 
and  a  great  heart ;  with  strong  moral  principles, 
that  won  him  the  name  of  a  man  and  a  Christian 
in  the  wofld,  yet  left  him  free  from  bigotry  and 
religious  intolerance ;  and  in  his  home,  among  his 
little  ones,  he  was  just  one  of  those  husbands  and 
fathers  that  Miss  Bremer  is  ever  ready  to  fall 
in  love  with,  charmed  by  their  social  virtues. 
There,  too,  was  his  wife,  who  sat  near  the  table, 
sewing  most  industriously.  Ah!  she  was  just 
such  a  woman  as  such  a  man  might  be  expected 
to  marry,  — calm,  cheerful,  dignified,  —  one  who 
believed    that    woman's    rights   were  woman's 


/'' 


214      THE    ARTIST   AND   HIS   LITTLE    FRIEND. 


duties;  and,  laboring  faithfully  in  her  own  sphere 
of  action,  she  strove  to  do  all  things  well,  and 
bring  up  her  children  in  the  "  nurture  and  admo- 
nition of  the  Lord."  Upon  the  hearth-rug  sat 
two  little  ones,  chatting  away  right  merrily,  and 
cutting  out  paper  figures  of  houses  and  men, 
cows  and  elephants,  which  they  plastered  upon 
the  sides  of  the  fireplace,  or  condemned  to  the 
flames  if  they  chanced  to  meet  with  their  disap- 
probation. Then,  "last  but  not  least,"  was 
Master  Willie.  He  was  seated  by  the  table  near 
which  his  mother  sat  at  work,  and,  with  his  head 
leaned  upon  his  hands,  his  whole  soul  seemed  to 
be  absorbed  in  the  book  which  lay  before  him. 
Occasionally  his  look  of  fixed  attention  would 
change  to  one  of  enthusiasm,  which  kindled 
across  his  face,  and  beamed  in  his  eyes  like  sun- 
shine. Then  he  would  start  and  turn  over  the 
leaves  quickly,  as  though  he  feared  the  rest 
would  be  a  blank,  or  would  slip  away  from  him 
before  he  could  finish  it.  He  seemed  to  be 
wholly  unconscious  of  all  that  passed  around, 
and  no  sound  from  without  reached  him,  —  not 
even  the  merry  chatter  of  the  little  ones,  though 


THE   ARTIST   AND   HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND.      215 


the  father  often  dropped  his  paper  to  listen,  and 
the  mother  looked  up  from  her  work  to  watch 
operations.  ' 

"0,  look  here!"  exclaimed  the  eldest;  "just 
see  what  a  dog  I  have  made !  Don't  he  look  just 
like  Mr.  Hicks' Snip?"         .     «, 

"  0  yeth ! "  lisped  the  little  fellow,  as  he 
dropped  his  scissors,  in  admiration ;  "  I  sthould 
think  it  wath  him.  Now  I  mean  to  make  Mith 
Beanth's  cat,  'cauth  you  know  they  '11  thit  down 
together,  and  not  bite  or  sthcratch.  Don't  you 
like  paper  things,  Jimmy,  thometimes,  better 
than  you  do  live  oneths  ?  'cauth  you  can  make 
wingths  to  the  caths,  if  you  want  to,  and  you  can 
cut  off  the  boyths'  heads  and  sthee  how  funny 
they'll  look;  'cauth,  you  know,  it  don't  hurt 
'em." 

"  Yes ;  and  you  don't  have  to  put  hinges  on 
the  doors  of  the  paper  houses,  but  you  can  pinch 
them  open  or  shut  'em,  just  as  you  please.  Now 
I  mean  to  cut  out  Mr.  Hicks,  and  after  that  I 
shall  make  Mrs.  Bean." 

Just  then  the  outer  door  opened,  and  the  wind 
came  whistling  through.    Both  children  dropped 


216       THE   ARTIST  AKD  HIS   LITTLB    FRIEND. 


♦ 


their  scissors,  and  looked  earnestly  towards  the 
door  of  the  room.  It  opened  slowly,  and  ah  old 
lady,  enveloped  in  a  plaid  cloak,  with  the  head 
drawn  closely  about  her  face,  made  her  appear- 
ance. In  an  instant  the  little  ones  were  on  their 
feet,  and  ran  towards  her,  with  shouts  of  wel- 
come. .       '''  '■    '  •'  ■     '^«'     '  >•-'■  '  ■■        >  ■■ 

"  Go  away,  you  little  plagues ! "  said  she,  as 
she  threw  back  the  head  of  her  cloak,  displaying 
her  good-natured  face,  and  her  clean,  white  cap, 
ornamented  with  a  profusion  of  yellow  bows; 
"  go  away,  I  say !  You  know  I  don't  like  you, 
and  yet  you  are  always  taking  after  me." 

"  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Bean,"  said  Mr.  Upton, 
and  he  rose  to  give  her  a  seat.  "  Good-evening," 
said  his  wife,  as  she  extended  her  hand  to  wel- 
come her.  ' 

"There,  now,  sit  down,  both  of  you!  If  yOu 
move  an  inch  for  me,  I'll  go  home!  I  didn't 
come  here  to  make  you  trouble."  She  threw  her 
cloak  over  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  seating  her- 
self, she  drew  her  knitting-work  from  her  spa- 
cious bag.  "  You  see,"  said  she,  "  I  've  brought 
my  work  with  me.    The  Scripture  says,  *  In  all 


■«r^ 


« 


Tdfi  ARTIST  AND  HIS  LITTLE   FRIElVD.      1^*7 


tabor  there  is  ptofit,  but  the  talk  of  the  lips  tend- 
eth  to  penury ;'  so,  as  I  had  a  deal  of  talking  to 
dOi  I  came  'armed  and  equipped,  as  the  law 
directs.'  I  got  all  out  of  work,  so  I  thought  I  'd 
begin  a  pair  of  stockings  for  my  little  — .  There, 
pow,"  said  she,  as  she  placed  her  hand  upon  her 
mouth,  and  glanced  towards  Willie,  "I  came 
within  one  of  telling.  Why,  what 's  the  matter 
with  you,  to-night,  'Billy  boy'?  You  are  al- 
ways the  first  to  welcome  me,  and  now  you  don't 
notice  me  at  all.  Willie!  Willie!  wake  up!" 
and  she  shook  him  gently. 

The  child  started,  and  turned  round ;  but  his 
face  grew  radiant  with  smiles,  as  he  seized  her 
by  the  hand.  "Why,  Mrs.  Bean!  you  dear 
Woman ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  did  n't  know  you 
were  here." 

"  Well,  then,  I  guess  you  did  n't ;  but  I  should 
have  cried,  in  a  minute  more,  if  you  hadn't  spoke 
to  me.  What  book  is  it  you  are  devouring  so 
earnestly?" 

"The  Life  of  Franklin." 

"  Franklin  what  ?  "  said  the  good  lady,  as  she 
19 


,..T 


218      THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS  UTTLE   FRIEND. 


arranged  her  spectacles,  and  took  the  book  in  her 
hand. 

"  Why,  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin ;  —  it 's  a  biog- 
raphy." 

"  A  what  ?  O  dear !  you  know  too  much  for 
me,  already ;  and  by  and  by  you  '11  be  reading; 
Webster's  Dictionary,  and  then  there'll  be  no 
such  thing  as  talking  with  you.  Why,  Mr.  Up- 
ton, don't  you  think  it's  dangerous  for  him  to 
get  so  intelligent  so  young?  According  to  my 
ideas,  a  child  ought  to  be  a  child  when  he  is  a 
child." 

"  So  1  think,"  replied  the  father;  "but  Willie 
is  not  coming  on  too  fast ;  —  he  has  a  little  work, 
a  little  play,  a  little  study,  every  day ;  and  when 
he  reads  for  amusement,  I  am  careful  to  see  what 
it  is ;  for  I  'd  not  like  to  put  Jack  Sheppard  or 
Gulliver's  Travels  into  the  hands  of  such  a  child. 
Besides,  I  don't  think  Willie  is  anything  extraor- 
dinary in  the  way  of  intelligence." 

"  Yes  he  is,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Bean,  with  a  great 
deal  of  warmth ;  "he  is  one  of  the  lovin'est,  best- 
natured,  most  obliging  boys  in  the  whole  world,  or 
America.    Why,  when  I  was  cutting  and  paring 


THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS  LITTLB   FBIEND.      219 


apples,  he  strung  them  for  me  as  well  as  I  could 
have  done  it  myself;  and,  more  than  that,  them 
little  hands  have  helped  me  shell  two  bushels  of 
beans,  this  winter.  Then,  too,  there 's  that  poor 
little  helpless  orphan  boy,  Johnny  Millar,  that  can't 
walk  a  step  without  his  crutches,  — just  see  how 
he  dragged  him  on  his  sled  and  in  his  roller-cart, 
as  tenderly  and  carefully  as  his  own  brother. 
Then,  too,  he  learned  the  three  youngest  of  that 
bereaved  family  to  read,  young  as  he  is;  and 
they  can  do  it  as  well  as  I  can,  and  better,  too, 
without  my  spectacles.  I  tell  you  what,  he's 
an  uncommon  child."  Quite  exhausted  with  this 
spirited  defence  of  her  favorite,  she  stopped  to 
take  breath.  With  a  quiet  smile,  the  mother 
glanced  at  Willie ;  but  he  was  again  absorbed  in 
his  book. 

"Ellen  Millar,"  recommenced  the  old  lady, 
"  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  Willie  was  the 
best  friend  she  had,  and  little  Johnny  could  n't  do 
without  him;  and,  besides  that,  I've  taken  a 
fancy  that  he  looks  just  as  my  Robin  used  to. 
To  be  sure,  Robin's  hair  and  eyes  were  black ; 
but  then,  —  come  here,  Willie,  —  it 's  just  across 


^0      THB   ARTIST  AND   HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


the  nose,  here,  and  down  this  side  of  the  face. 
But,  I  tell  you  the  truth,  I  've  had  my  misgivings 
ahout  him.  I  vms  afraid,  if  he  read  and  studied 
so  much,  he  'd  be  just  like  Andrew  Grieves,  that 
poor,  secluded  individual,  who  has  n't  spoken  ten 
words  to  me  since  I  kept  house  for  him,  or  been 
further  than  the  yard  gate  for  this  two  years.  I 
think  that  people  grow  just  like  what  they  associ- 
ate with  most;  and  when  one  gets  buried  heart 
and  soul  in  books,  they  grow  dumb  and  speech- 
less, just  like  'em;  and  that's  the  only  reason 
why  Andrew  Grieves  sits  in  his  chamber,  now, 
silent  as  a  mummy,  without  believing  in  God,  or 
taking  any  interest  in  his  fellow-men." 

"  Not  believe  in  a  God  ? "  exclaimed  Mr.  Up- 
ton, in  surprise. 

"  No ;  that 's  a  solemn  fact ;  and  it 's  just  what 
I  came  iri  here  to  talk  to  you  about,  though  I 
did  n't  want  to  come  on  to  it  too  soon.  And  now 
sit  round  here,  '  Billy  boy,'  and  listen,  for  you 
have  got  a  part  to  act.  You  remember  that  yes- 
terday was  one  of  our  Lord's  own  days,  when  the 
sky  was  blue,  and  the  west  wind,  as  it  came 
through  the  fir-trees,  was  soft  and  warm  as  sum- 


THE  ARTIST  AND  BIS  LITTLE   FSIEND.      221 


mer.  Well,  it  came  way  into  my  heart,  and  I 
felt  a  kind  of  nearness  and  loving  feeling  for 
everybody ;  so,  when  I  carried  Mr.  Grieves*  din- 
ner up  to  i  im,  I  wanted  to  say  something  e^ctra ; 
and  says  I,  '  This  is  a  fine  day,  sir.  Don't  you 
think  a  walk  would  do  you  good?  It  would 
make  you  feel  as  brisk  and  happy  as  a  bird.' 
He  lifted  up  his  head,  and,  shaking  it  sorrowfully, 
says  he,  'Mrs.  Bean,  I  never  shall  he  happy 
again.'  '  0,  don't  be  down-hearted,'  said  I ; '  this 
is  a  very  good  sort  of  a  world,  if  we  are  only  a 
mind  to  look  at  it  in  the  right  way.  Besides, 
we've  got  all  heaven  before  us,  and  all  God's 
children  to  love.' 

"  He  seemed  to  be  quite  willing  to  talk ;  for, 
said  he, '  I  have  been  in  sunnier  lands,  beneath 
brighter  skies  than  this.  Twelve  long  years  1 
dwelt  in  Italy,  and  stu4ied  the  works  of  the  best 
masters.  But  when  I  turned  my  face  homeward, 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  joy  j  my  heart  was  full 
of  hope  and  love,  and  it  yearned  for  the  home  of 
my  childhood,  like  a  wandering  bird  for  its  nest. 
I  came,  but  it  was  desolate.  My  father  slept  iu 
a  drunkard's  grave,  and  my  blessed  mother  la/ , 
19* 


222      THE   ARTIST   AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


beside  him.  I  had  a  brother,  but  they  told  me 
he,  too,  was  a  drunken,  worthless  sot ;  and  my 
sister,  —  the  idol  of  our  household,  the  pride  of 
our  hearts,  —  a  while  she  reigned  the  queen  of 
beauty  and  fashion,  and  then  they  bade  me  seek 
her  in  the  dens  and  burrows  of  the  city.'  Then 
he  laid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  moaned  as 
though  his  heart  was  breaking.  I  could  scarce 
speak  for  crying.  'But,'  said  I,  *  trust  in  God, 
and  he  will  do  you  good.'  O,  Mr.  Upton!  1 
wish  you  could  have  seen  him  then.  Look  here ; 
he  laid  his  hands  down  on  the  table,  so,  and 
turning  his  pale  face  towards  me,  with  those 
great  dark  eyes,  he  said,  'Mrs.  Bean,  I  don't 
believe  in  a  God ! '  I  most  always  have  an 
answer  for  everything,  but  then  I  was  taken  by 
surprise.  I  looked  at  the  white-winged  cheru- 
bim, in  the  comer,  and  at  the  picture  that  hung 
with  its  face  to  the  wall,  but  I  could  n't  find  any- 
thing to  relieve  me ;  so  I  stood  for  as  much  as 
five  minutes,  with  him  looking  straight  at  me ; 
then  I  backed  slowly  to  the  door.  *  Good-morn- 
ing, Mr.  Grieves,'  said  I,  and  ran  down  stairs, 
with  my  heart  fluttering  like  a  wounded  bird. 


THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   UTILE   FRIEND.      223 


"  Well,  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Hicks  came  in,  as 
he  often  does,  in  a  friendly  way,  to  chat  and  take 
tea;  and  as  we  were  talking  confidentially  to- 
gether, I  heard  some  one  speak  my  name.  I 
turned  my  head,  and,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
I  saw  Mr.  Grieves  standing  in  the  back  portico, 
with  his  head  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars. 
'  Come  here,'  said  he.  *  What  two  children  are 
those  ? '  and  he  pointed  towards  the  river's  bank. 

«'  Well,  I  saw  it  was  '  Billy  boy '  and  Johnny 
Millar;  and  so  I  told  him.         .-  »      .< 

"  *  What  a  misshapen,  ugly-looking  thing  that 
smallest  one  is!'  said  he. 

"*Yes,'  says  !,  'but  he's  a  good  child. 
"Looks  is  nothing,  —  behavior's  all;"  besides 
that,  "the  Lord  made  us,  and  not  we  our- 
selves."'     ■  ■>    i  A 

"  Then  he  laughed,  in  a  strange,  scornful  way. 
*  So,  that  is  one  of  the  creatures  your  God  has 
made,  to  drag  out  a  miserable,  painful  existence, 
and  then  go,  no  one  knows  whither.' 

"  I  felt  vexed.  *  No,'  says  I,  *  God  never  made 
him  so ;  but  he  had  the  whooping-cough  and 
measles,  and,  his  worthless  mother  not  caring  for 


224      THE   ARTIST  AMD  HIS   LITTLE   FRZENp. 


him  as  she  should,  he  suffered  the  consequences. 
It  was  not  our  Lord's  doings.  But  look  there ; 
there  is  a  child  that  is  growing  as  God  ir^ade 
him,  —  coming  up  to  a  glorious  manhood,  to  he 
useful  in  the  world,  and  a  blessing  to  his  fellow- 
creatures.  He  is  the  friend  and  helper  of  all,  from 
the  little  lame  boy  that  he  is  leading  so  carefully, 
to  the  tiny  ant  that  builds  her  home  in  his  path- 
way.' I  spoke  rather  sharply,  for  I  was  earnest, 
and  I  knew  I  was  speaking  truths  that  came 
home  to  him ;  but  I  felt  almost  sorry,  he  looked 
so  sad. 

"  *  Tell  my  little  friend,'  said  he, '  I  should  like 
to  see  him,  and  talk  with  him ;'  and  then  he  went 
to  his  chamber.  > 

"Now,  'Billy  boy,'  may  God  aid  and  bless 
you.  I've  nearly  talked  my  hour  out,  for  I 
promised  to  be  home  at  eight  o'clock,  as  Mr. 
Hicks  said  he  should  call ;  but,  mind  and  come  to- 
■morrow^  for  since  he  has  taken  a  liking  to  you, 
there's  no  knowing  how  much  you  may  do  to 
comfort  and  heal  his  poor  suffering  heart." 

"  I  will  surely  come,"  said  the  child,  who  sat 
with  his  hand  clasped  in  hers,  and  had  scarce 


I  I 


THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   IITTLB   FRIEND.      !i)95 

token  his  eyes  from  her  while  she  was  speaking. 
"  I  will  come  and  coax  him  out  of  his  dark  room 
into  the  sunshine.  I  will  lead  him  among  the 
little  children,  and  then  his  heart  will  grow 
warm,  and  he  will  be  happy." 


CHAPTER    II. 

Through  the  whole  of  that  night,  the  lone 
passer-by  might  have  seen  a  light  gleaming 
from  the  artist's  chamber ;  and  Mrs.  Bean,  as  she 
woke  from  her  peaceful  slumbers,  heard  the 
measured  fall  of  his  footsteps,  as  he  paced  to  and 
fro.  It  smote  upon  her  loving  heart  like  words 
of  sorrow,  and  her  cheerfulness  only  returned 
when  the  sunshine  of  another  day  brought  with 
it  her  darling  Willie. 

"  Good-morning,  *  Billy  boy,'  said  she ;  "  I  am 
glad  you've  come.  Poor, Mr.  Grieves  hasn't 
been  in  his  bed  all  night,  and  this  morning  he 
looks  sad  and  sorry  enough.  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  like  to  see  you,  for  I  was  afraid  he  had 
forgotten  you.  *Yes,'  said  he;  *if  he  comes, 
send  him  up.'     So  come  this  way." 


226      THE   AHTIST   AND   HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


She  led  him  through  the  richly-carpeted 
«ntry,  and  up  a  flight  of  stairs ;  then,  pointing  to 
a  half-open  door,  she  whispered,  "  In  there,"  and 
left  him. 

The  child  stood  hesitating  upon  the  threshold, 
for  a  moment ;  but,  as  the  artist  caught  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps,  he  turned,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  him. 

" Come  in,  my  little  friend,"  said  he ;  "I  am 
glad  to  see  you." 

In  a  moment,  all  the  restraint  and  awe  with 
which  Mrs.  BeaA's  wonderful  stories  had  im- 
pressed him  vanished.  He  stepped  frankly  for- 
ward, and  took  the  offered  hand.  "  How  do  you 
do,  this  morning,  sir  ?  I  was  afmid  I  should  dis- 
turb or  interrupt  you." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  was  only  looking  at  this 
picture,  which  has  hung  with  its  face  to  the  wall 
for  these  five  years.  It  is  the  work  of  my  old 
master,  Gjibriel  Grassini.  He  was  a  good  old 
man,  —  a  perfect  enthusiast  in  his  art,  yet  simple- 
hearted  as  a  child,  and  this  was  his  master-piece. 
See !  it  is  '  Christ  blessing  the  little  children.' 
He  sold  all  his  other  paintings,  but  this  he  would 


THE   ARTIST   AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND.      227 


not  part  with ;  and,  because  I  was  a  favorite,  he 
bade  me  take  it  for  my  own,  should  he  die  while 
I  was  with  him.  Often  I  have  seen  the  old  man 
sit  for  hours,  with  folded  arms,  and  gaze  upon 
this  picture,  till  the  tears  streamed  down  his  fur- 
rowed  cheeks.  One  night,  when  I  was  going  to 
a  concert,  I  left  him  thus,  and  when  I  returned  I 
found  him  sitting  just  the  same.  I  spoke  to  him, 
but  he  answered  me  not.  I  went  to  him,  and 
placed  my  hand  upon  his  forehead.  He  was 
dead !  but  the  peaceful  and  beautiful  expression 
that  lingered  upon  his  face  was  the  same  as  this 
is  here." 

"  0,  he  v  beautiful !  "  murmured  Willie,  as  he 
clasped  his  hands  instinctively,  and  looked  up  to 
that  gentle,  serene  countenance,  whose  celestial 
beauty  the  old  painter  had  portrtiyed  with  so 
much  fulness  and  strength  of  feeling.  "It 
makes  me  wish  that  I  was  one  of  those  little 
children." 

"  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  had  that 
wish,"  replied  the  artist ;  "  for  often,  as  I  have 
looked  at  this  picture,  I  have  felt  yearnings  of 
love  for  that  gentle  and  beautiful  being,  and 


228      THE   ARTIST   AND   HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


longed  that  he  should  raise  me  in  his  arms  and 
bless  me,  as  he  does  that  little  child.  But  when 
my  light  became  darkness,  and  I  knew  I  could 
be  a  child  no  more,  I  turned  the  picture  to  the 
wall,  and  strove  to  forget  it." 

"  O ! "  exclaimed  Willie,  as  if  visited  by  a 
sudden  thought,  "how  I  wish  little  Johnny  could 
see  this !  He  would  be  so  pleased.  He  is  sick 
land  lame ;  and  now  that  he  has  learned  to  read, 
and  has  read  about  this  very  thing  himself,  it 
would  do  his  heart  good  to  look  at  it." 

"  Go  and  bring  him,  then,"  said  the  artist ;  and 
scarcely  were  the  words  spoken,  when  Willie 
bounded  away  like  a  deer. 

Once  more  alone,  the  artist  folded  his  arms, 
and  stood  again  before  the  picture.  "  Yes,"  he 
murmured,  "  faint  gleams  of  light  visit  the  mid- 
night of  my  soul,  and  I  feel  as  if  awakening  from 
a  deep  and  troubled  sleep.  Ere  now,  Beauty 
and  Order  have  sprung  from  Chaos,  and  Dark- 
ness has  ever  been  the  parent  of  Light.  1  feel 
unwonted  strength ;  and  Hope  whispers  me  that 
out  of  the  winter  of  my  soul  shall  spring  buds  of 
promise,  which  shall  blossom  in  love  and  glad- 


THE   ARTIST   AND   HIS   LITl'LE    FRL^ND.       229 


ness.  That  child,  with  his  earnest  love  and 
simple  faith,  makes  me  doubt  the  truth  of  my 
own  philosophy ;  and  yet,  how  tenaciously  have 
I  clung  to  the  belief  that  man  can  only  receive  as 
truth  that  which  appeals  to  reason,  and  his  judg- 
ment sanctions!  But  this  child  receives,  in 
touching  faith,  whatever  one  may  tell  him, 
doubting  not  that  time  will  prove  the  blest 
reality.  Ah!  now  it  comes!  And  thus,  per- 
chance, we  worms  of  dust,  when  looking  up  to 
God  and  angels,  feel  an  influx  of  diviner  life,  —  a 
something  strange,  intangible,  unknown,  —  but 
which,  when  cherished  in  the  soul,  assuming 
form  and  beauty,  becomes  a  mighty  power,  and 
flows  out  from  the  lips  and  hands,  breathing  and 
working  blessings.  Am  I  dreaming  nowl  I 
have  dreamed  enoagh ;  and  cold  philosophy  has 
blown  upon  me,  with  its  wintry  breath,  until  I 
seem  transformed,  —  more  like  an  iceberg,  lift- 
ing up  my  chilling  front,  and  daring  Heaven  to 
smite  me.  God!  He  seems  a  shadow,  —  a 
phantom  born  of  men's  affections,  —  and  yet  my 
soul  is  loaning  towards  him,  through  a  sad 
20 


230      THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   LITTL£   FftlEin). 


necessity.  Ah!  it  seems  prophetic.  Yes,  I 
yield.     O  Father !  lead  me  ! " 

The  voices  of  the  children,  below,  reached 
him,  and  he  went  out  to  meet  them ;  and  when 
he  saw  how  hard  it  was  for  the  little  lame  child 
to  walk,  he  went  down  and  brought  him  up  ten- 
derly and  carefully  in  his  arms,  while  Mrs.  Bean, 
who  stood  below,  lifted  her  hands  in  surprise. 

Willie  threw  open  the  blinds  of  the  chamber ; 
and  as  the  light  came  streaming  in  upon  that 
divinely  beautiful  countenance,  with  the  happy 
mothers  and  innocent  little  ones  around  him,  the 
sensitive  and  suffering  child  burst  into  tears,  and, 
kneeling  on  the  floor,  he  seemed  to  be  imploring 
that  blessed  spirit  to  be  mindful  of  him  also. 

"Why  does  he  weep?"  said  the  artist. 

"  0 !  it 's  because  it  comes  to  him  //crc,"  said 
Willie,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  speak- 
ing earnestly.  "  I  can  feel  it,  but  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  it  is ;"  and,  kneeling  beside  his  weeping 
friend,  he  drew  him  close  to  his  bosom. 

The  artist  trembled  with  emotion,  as  he  beheld 
them;  and  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  white- 
winged  seraph  that  stood  in  the  corner,  now 


THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND.      231 


looking  down  upon  him,  in  the  clear  light,  with 
her  saintly  countenance,  he  thought  he  saw  a 
silvery  cloud  about  her,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it, 
the  faces  of  his  loved  and  lost.  The  warm, 
gushing  fount  of  affection  sprang  up  anew  in  his 
heart ;  and  his  eyes,  long  unused  to  tears,  were 
filled  to  overflowing.  He  called  the  children 
away,  and,  taking  their  hands  in  his,  he  talked 
to  them  a  long  time,  asking  them  many  ques- 
tions ;  and  when  he  found  that  Willie  had  taught 
his  friend  to  read,  he  asked  that  he  would  read  to 
him. 

The  child  willingly  drew  a  little  book  from 
his  pocket,  and  commenced,  while  the  artist 
listened  attentively;  but  when  he  came  to  the 
words,  "Except  ye  are  converted,  and  become 
like  little  children,  ye  cannot  enter  into  the  king- 
dom of  heaven,"  he  took  the  book  and  said,  "  It 
is  enough ;"  but  he  looked  at  it,  and  thought  of 
it,  and  read  it  many  times  himself. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  he,  at  length.  "It  is  a 
pleasant  day,  and  I  will  walk  with  you."  So 
they  went  down  the  stairs  together,  and  Mrs. 
Bean,  who  yet  stood  there,  looked  most  gra- 


S32      THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   UTTLS  FBIEND. 

ciously  upon  Willie,  but  spoke  not  a  word. 
They  wandered  down  to  the  river's  bank,  to  the 
little  bridge  above  the  old  saw-mill,  and  away 
into  the  woods,  where  the  birds  were  building 
their  nests,  and  blossoms  opening  to  catch  the 
sunshine.  As  if  God  had  commenced  another 
creation,  so  "all  things  seemed  to  be  pressing 
towards  new  conditions,"  —  the  bursting  buds, 
the  springing  grass,  and  new-born  insects ;  and, 
partaking  of  the  general  spirit,  the  sorrowful 
artist  opened  his  heart  to  receive  the  harmonious 
and  invigorating  influences  of  Nature.  He 
talked  freely  with  the  children,  telling  them,  in  a 
simple  way,  many  strange  and  wonderful  truths 
about  the  formation  of  the  world  and  the  great 
universe ;  and  as  he  instructed  their  minds,  and 
elevated  their  affections,  by  a  mutual  blessing,  his 
own  soul  was  exalted  and  strengthened.  Then, 
when  the  poor  lame  child  complained  of  weari- 
ness, he  took  him  in  his  arms,  and  bore  him  to 
his  home. 

Though  poor  and  meanly  furnished,  yet  the 
home  of  these  orphan  children  was  the  abode  of 
contentment  and  love.    The  sun  stole  in  through 


THS  ARTIST  AND  BIS  LITTLE   FBIEMD.      233 


the  vines  at  the  window,  and  glimmered  upon 

the  neatly-swept   and    sanded  floor;    and  the 

flowers  arranged  upon  the  chimney-piece  told 

how  well   these   simple-hearted  children  couM 

appreciate  the  beautiful  in  nature.    A  canary, 

which  hung  at  the  open  window,  was  pouring 

forth  his  blithest  strains;  but  softer  and  more 

musical  by  far  was  the  low  sweet  voice  of  Ellen, 

who  sang  as  she  worked,  with  the  two  little  onea 

at  her  feet.    In  the  next  room,  too,  could  bj^ 

heard  the  steady  tap  of  the  hammers  of  the  two 

oldest  brothers,  Roger  and  Harvey,  who  were, 

shoemakers.     These  were  the  sounds   of  life, 

love,  and  industry,  which  gladden  every  happy 

home. 

The  little  ones  ran  to  meet  Willie,  with  open 

arms ;  and  when  the  artist  came,  leading  little 

Johnny,  they  welcomed  him  also.     So  he  took 

them  on  his  knees,  and  stroked  their  silken  hair, 

and  watched  their  merry,  laughing  eyes,  as  they 

told  him  some  simple  tale.    Then  Ellen,  the 

gentle    sister,  when    she    saw  how  much    he 

iioticed  the  little  ones,  looked  up  to  him  with 

confidence ;  and  he  talked  to  her  also,  not  fearing 
20* 


*  ji 


,  I 


234      THE   AETIST  AND  HIS  LITTLE   FRIEND. 


her,  or  feeling  abashed  in  her  presence ;  for  she 
was  so  calm,  so  meek  and  pure-hearted,  it  seemed 
very  natural  he  should  say  many  things  to  her 
that  he  would  not  to  all;  and  as  they  both 
became  interested,  she  told  him  of  the  many 
difficulties  they  had  been  obliged  to  encounter, 
and  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  they  had  borne 
since  their  parents  died,  and  how,  at  last,  they 
had  overcome  them  nearly  all,  by  patient  perse- 
verance, and  mutual  love  and  good  will. 

0,  how  the  artist  wondered  at  himself,  to 
think  that  he  had  been  shut  up  in  his  room,  fret- 
ting over  his  own  sorrows,  while  others  were  suf- 
fering thus,  and  he  had  money  enough,  and  to 
spare  !  Then  he  spoke  of  his  own  experience,  — 
of  his  sorrows,  his  weary  mind-wanderings  and 
heart-burnings,  and  how  he  had  been  led  to  think 
of  many  things  by  simply  seeing  his  little  friend 
Willie  leading  her  poor  lame  brother,  so  tenderly 
and  carefully,  by  the  river's  side.  He  said  much, 
and  spoke  very  earnestly ;  —  ah !  he  was  so  elo- 
quent he  made  her  weep ;  and  when  he  looked  up 
to  her,  as  she  stood  by  her  chair,  with  her  pale, 
sweet  face  and  sorrowful  eyes,  he  thought  how 


THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND.      235 

very  much  she  looked  like  the  white-winged 
seraph  in  his  chamber.  Each  felt  comforted  and 
gladdened,  by  this  outpouring  of  their  sorrows ; 
and  wlien  he  rose  to  depart,  the  little  ones  came 
trooping  after  him,  begging  him  to  come  again ; 
and  Ellen,  when  she  bade  him  "good-by," 
thanked  him  for  "  his  kindness."  He  could  not 
exactly  tell  what  that  kindness  wns,  but  he  felt 
that  he  had  given  out  something  of  light  and 
goodness  from  his  own  soul ;  and  as  he  walked 
up  the  street,  holding  Willie  by  the  hand,  he 
stepped  lightly,  lifting  his  face  to  the  sunlit 
heavens,  and  wondering  if  he  vas  indeed  his 
former  self.  Such  hours  come  not  often  in  a 
man's  life,  and  when  they  do,  they  seem  almost 
too  simple  to  speak  of  in  words ;  but  they  are  great 
eras  in  existence,  —  the  prophets  of  the  future. 

CHAPTER    III. 


Drawn  together  by  a  strong  tie  of  love  and 
sympathy,  Willie  and  the  artist  became  warm 
and  earnest  friends;  and  as  the  artist  received 
light  and  inspiration  from  the  beautiful  manifest- 


236       THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


I 


ations  of  the  child's  unaffected  goodness  of  mind 
and  heart,  so  was  Willie  constantly  adding  to  his 
little  store  of  knowledge,  from  the  rich  treasurej 
opened  to  him  by  his  friend.  When  the  child 
was  free  from  his  school  duties,  they  would  wan- 
der Lway  whole  days  together,  through  the 
fields  and  woods,  gathering  rare  specimens  of 
flowers,  minerals,  and  insects ;  resting,  at  times, 
in  some  village  porch,  or  taking  their  noon-day 
meal  at  some  old-fashioned  farm-house,  until 
"the  artist  and  his  little  friend"  became  well 
known  all  about  the  country.  Thus  years  passed 
on,  and  —  as  it  very  naturally  happens,  in  the 
course  of  time,  and  change  of  seasons  —  there 
dawned,  at  length,  a  blessed  morning,  in  the 
month  of  May,  when  heaven  was  all  a-light  with 
sunshine,  and  earth  returned  its  gracious  smiles 
with  blushing  bloom  and  matchless  beauty. 
Then  thoughtful  heads  and  loving  hearts  were 
conscious  of  the  nearness  of  the  Lord,  and 
thanked  him  for  his  goodness ;  and  thus  it  was 
that  Mrs.  Bean,  the  lone  and  childless  widow, 
rejoiced  in  the  influences  of  this  grateful  spirit, 
and  made  her  own  heart  glad  with  the  happiness 


THE   ARTIST   AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND.      237 


of  Others.  She  went  from  room  to  room,  throW- 
ing  open  the  windows  to  let  in  the  air  and  sun- 
shine ;  scanning  every  comer,  to  see  that  not  a 
particle  of  dust  remained;  arranging  the  chairs 
for  the  twentieth  time ;  adding  a  few  more  fresh 
flowers  to  the  already  loaded  vases,  and  then 
looking  around  with  a  smile  of  perfect  satisfac- 
tion, as  she  pronounced  it  "  all  correct."  Down 
deep  in  her  \\e&Tt  was  the  knowledge  of  a  blessed 
truth,  which  must  be  told.  That  very  night 
Andrew  Grieves  was  to  take  Ellen  Millar,  the 
poor  orphan  girl,  as  his  lawful  and  wedded  wife, 
and  shield  her  from  the  world's  rude  storms 
under  his  own  protecting  wing. 

"  Ah ! "  thought  Mrs.  Bean,  as  she  stood  in 
the  little  back  kitchen,  and  looked  straight  at  the 
Chinese  idols  on  the  mantel-piece,  "it  was  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  he  should 
fall  in  love  with  her ;"  and  surely  there  had  not 
been  such  an  excellent  match  since  the  time 
when  she  herself  stood  up,  and  promised 
solemnly  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  her  now  de- 
parted husband.  Dr.  Alpheus  Bean.  But  sud- 
denly her  meditations  were   interrupted  by  the 


288      THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


hasty  entrance  of  Mr.  Hicks,  bearing  a  great  two- 
year-old  baby  in  his  arms,  which  he  carried  with 
the  air  of  a  hero  returning  with  the  spoils  of 
battle. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Hicks ! "  exclaimed  the  good  lady, 
in  astonishment,  "  where  did  you  get  that  child?" 
But  Mr.  Hicks  was  too  exhausted  to  speak.  He 
placed  the  child  upon  its  feet,  and  sinking  into  a 
chair,  he  could  only  murmur  something  about 
" '  Billy  boy '  and  the  mother."  He  was  such  a 
full-favored  and  fleshy  man,  it  was  no  wonder  he 
was  very  much  overcome.  But,  as  Mrs.  Bean 
stood  regarding  the  child  with  the  greatest  curi- 
osity, her  darling  Willie  made  his  appearance, 
also,  leading  a  pale  and  fainting  woman  by  the 
hand. 

"  Is  this  the  place  ? "  she  said,  in  a  faltering 
voice.  "  Have  you  told  me  the  truth  ?  Shall  I 
rest  here  ?  0  Lord ! "  and  she  fell  upon  the 
threshold.  In  an  instant,  Mrs.  Bean  was  at  her 
side,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Hicks,  she 
was  brought  in  and  laid  upon  the  sofa.  She  had 
fainted,  and  while  Mrs.  Bean  labored  to  restore 


THB  ARTIST  AND  HIS  UTTLE  FKIElfD.      230 


her,  she  began  to  question  Willie.  "  Who  is  she  ? 
and  where  did  you  find  her  V* 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  he.  "My  Uncle 
Richard  sent  me  a  nice  basket  of  oranges,  last 
night,  and  I  thought  I  would  run  down,  this 
morning,  and  carry  a  few  to  old  Mother  Mason ; 
but  I  had  scarce  turned  the  corner  of  the  street, 
when  I  saw  this  woman  coming,  leading  the  little 
child.  She  seemed  to  be  so  weak  she  could 
scarcely  walk,  and  before  I  reached  her  she  sank 
down  upon  one  of  the  door-steps.  I  ran  to  her 
as  quick  as  I  could,  v/hen  she  begged  me,  in  the 
'  name  of  Heaven,'  to  give  her  something  to  eat, 
for  she  was  perishing  with  hunger  and  fatigue. 
I  gave  her  some  of  the  oranges,  and  she  ate  them 
so  fast  it  frightened  me.  Then  she  asked  me  if 
I  knew  a  man  named  Andrew  Grieves.  I  told 
her  I  did,  and  that  he  was  one  of  my  best  friends. 
At  this,  she  caught  me  by  the  arm,  and  talked  so 
fast  I  could  not  understand  her.  I  could  only 
gather,  from  what  she  said,  that  she  was  his  sis- 
ter, and  wanted  to  see  him.  So  I  turned  back  to 
show  her  the  way,  when  we  met  with  Mr.  Hicks, 


240       THE   ARTIST   AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND. 


who  insisted  upon  carrying  the  child,  for  the 
poor  little  thing  could  scarce  step." 

"  O  Lord  of  love ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bean,  as 
she  raised  her  hands,  in  grateful  surprise ;  "  is  n't 
this  remarkable  ?  His  own  darling  sister !  But 
don't  say  a  toard,  Willie ;  don't  say  a  word^  Mr. 
Hicks !  Keep  it  a  secret,  and  we  '11  surprise  him. 
O,  won't  this  be  one  of  the  blessedest  nights  the 
moon  ever  shone  upon  ? "  and  she  redoubled  her 
exertions,  pouring  out  the  cologne  with  a  lavish 
hand,  until  the  warm  glow  returned  to  the  stran- 
ger's cheek,  and  she  was  able  to  sit  up.  • 

"  O ! "  she  murmured,  as  she  clasped  her  hands 
on  her  forehead,  and  gazed  around,  "  how  sick 
and  starved  I  have  been !  And  my  poor  brother ! 
he  is  perishing  too!  0,  sir!  go  to  him!  Save 
him ! "  she  exclaimed,  turning  to  Mr.  Hicks. 
"He  is  a  poor,  broken-spirited  man;  but  they 
keep  him  in  their  dens  of  corruption,  and  he  can- 
not escape.     O,  save  him !  save  him ! " 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  cried  Mr.  Hicks,  as  he  sprang  up 
and  pulled  on  his  hat;  "I  will  do  anything  in  the 
world, — only  tell  me  what ! "  He  buttoned  up  his 
coat  with  nervous  energy,  and  looked  round  for 


THB   ABTUT   AND  HIS   UTTLE   FRIBND.      941 


aomewhere  to  go.  He  could  scarce  wait  for  a 
definite  and  clear  direction,  when  he  hurried 
away  to  the  coach-office,  with  his  great  heart 
beating  joyfully  in  its  broad  tenement,  and  his 
whole  soul  bent  upon  the  accomplishmrnt  of 
his  mission ;  nor  will  it  be  ill-timed,  ever)  now, 
to  say,  that  ere  noon-day  he  had  returned,  an( 
the  erring  brother  sat,  with  his  sister  and  hur 
little  one, by  the  kitchen-fire,  "clothed  ui  •  in  his 
right  mind." 

But  the  artist  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  as  he 
sat  alone  in  his  pleasant  chamber,  with  his  hands 
clasped  upon  his  bosom,  and  his  face  raised  to 
the  sunlit  heavens,  pouring  out  the  deep  grati- 
tude of  his  soul  to  the  Giver  of  all  good.  Much 
he  wondered  what  had  become  of  his  little 
friend,  —  he  who  had  not  ;'^' ied  to  meet  him 
each  day  since  their  first  acquaintance,  and 
whose  thoughts,  and  sympathies,  and  love,  had 
become  so  needful  to  his  happiness.  And,  of  all 
times,  that  he  should  forsake  him  tujw!  —  the 
fairest,  proudest,  happiest  day  of  his  life.  Yet 
the  time  passed  on,  and  he  came  not;  and  even 
when  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and  the  guests 
21 


242      THE   ARTIST   AND  HIS  UTTLE   FBIEND. 


assembled,  and  the  artist  stood  there,  with  that 
dear  chosen  one  leaning  upon  his  arm,  who 
seemed  so  much  like  the  white-winged  seraph 
in  the  comer,  even  then  he  looked  in  vain  for 
that  young,  familiar  face. 

But  while  the  artist  stood  thus,  with  his  soul's 
affianced  leaning  upon  his  arm,  the  folding  doors 
were  thrown  open  wide,  and  his  youthful  friend, 
with  sparkling  eyes  and  a  glowing  countenance, 
made  his  appearance,  leading  by  either  hand 
the  lost  brother  and  sister,  while  Mr.  Hicks 
brought  up  the  rear  with  the  child;  and  the 
artist,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  towards  them,  knew 
them  in  an  instant.  His  face  grew  pale,  nnd  his 
limbs  trembled ;  but,  as  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  embrace  them,  a  fervent  "  Thank  God ! "  burst 
from  his  lips. 

Then  everybody  laughed,  and  everybody  cried, 
they  knew  not  why.  Mr.  Hicks  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Bean,  as  though  he  had  never  seen  her 
before,  and  cast  significant  glances  at  the  young 
couple.  The  five  Millar  children  drew  close 
about  their  sister;  the  little  paper-cutters  danced 
for  joy ;  and  Mrs.  Upton,  though  she  was  by  no 


THE   ARTIST  AND  HIS   LITTLE   FRIEND.      243 


means  weak  and  sentimental,  laid  her  head  on 
her  husband's  shoulder,  and  wept. 

Then  the  artist,  as  he  stood  thus,  with  his 
own  loved  angel  leaning  upon  his  arm,  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  white-winged  seraph  that  stood  in  the 
comer,  and  to  Jesus  as  he  blessed  the  little  chil- 
dren ;  and  because  his  soul  was  too  full  for  utter- 
ance, he  simply  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of 
Willie,  and  earnestly  exclaimed,  "  May  God  bless 
2/oM,  my  little  friend !" 


SAINT  VALENTINE'S  MORNING. 


BT    MAS.    M.    A.    LIYBBMOK] 


«Wb  shall  have  a  gay  time  to-morrow, 
Cousin  Addy,  —  a  gayer  time  than  we've  had 
before,  this  winter ! "  and  the  lively  little  Louise 
rubbed  her  hands  together,  while  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  thoughts  of  coming  enjoyment. 

"  Why,  what  takes  place  to-morrow  ? "  asked 
the  graver  and  more  serious  Adelaide,  looking 
up  from  her  homely  needle-work,  and  suspend- 
ing, for  a  moment,  her  labors. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  that  the  day  is  conse- 
crated to  fun  and  frolic,  Tna.  belle,  —  to  downright 
solid  enjoyment?" 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  my  ignorance,  Louise ; 
—  I  did  not  know  that  the  day  was  different 
from  any  other." 

"  May  Saint  Valentine  forgive  you ! "  replied 
the  little  maiden,  clasping  her  hands,  and  raising 
her  eyes  in  affected  horror.    "  Of  all  the  saints' 


SAINT  VALENTIMB's  MORNINO. 


245 


days  in  the  calendar,  his  is  the  only  one  I  remem- 
ber or  keep  holy." 

"  0,  to-morrow  is  Saint  Valentine's  day,  is  it  ? 
I  beg  the  saint's  pardon,  as  well  as  your  own. 
But  what  of  that?  I  know  there  is  an  old 
notion  that  on  this  day  birds  choose  their  mates. 
Chaucer  alludes  to  it ;  so  does  Shakspeare,  in  the 
•Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,'  I  believe j  and 
Herrick  has  a  couplet  like  this : 

*  Oft  have  I  heard  both  youths  and  virgins  say, 
Birds  choose  their  mates,  and  couple,  too,  this  day.* 

But  how  is  this  going  to  make  fun  for  you,  you 
little  wild  puss  ?  " 

"  What  a  horrible  bas-bleu  you  are,  Adelaide ! 
Let  me  tell  you,  there  will  be  that  going  on  to- 
morrow that  the  birds  will  utterly  ignore.  All 
day  long,  a  stream  of  Valentines  will  come  pour- 
ing in  upon  us  from  the  post-office,  —  senti- 
mental, confidential,  and  lack-a-daisical ;  serious, 
comic,  and  tragic ;  inscribed  upon  paper  of  every 
hue  and  quality,  bearing  all  manner  of  dainty 
devices,  embossed,  perforated,  painted,  and  per- 
fumed, and  made  as  killing  as  possible;  and 
2Vl^ 


* 


246 


SAINT  valentine's  MORNINO. 


can't  you  see,  you  icicle,  that  this  will  make  fun 
for  us?" 

"  Ah !  I  begin  to  comprehend !  The  pairing  is 
not  wholly  confined  to  the  feathered  race,  then  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  —  the  fun  is  not. 
Well,  then,  besides  the  Valentines,  a  party  of  us 
are  going  over  to  the  Shaker  village,  in  the  after- 
noon, and  to  see  the  Indian  relics,  —  t\/o  places  I 
have  been  dying  to  visit,  these  two  years ;  and 
in  the  evening  we  have  our  grand  fancy  ball,  — 
the  ball  of  the  season,  —  when  I  intend  to  look 
my  prettiest,  to  dance  my  lightest,  and  to  queen  it 
in  a  most  regal  manner.  0,  these  glorious  balls ! 
—  the  music  of  those  divine  waltzes !  —  how 
it  haunts  me  !  —  Tra  la  la  la !  Tra  la  la  la  ! 
Tra  la  la  la !  la  la  la  ! "  and,  humming  the  air  of 
a  fashionable  waltz,  she  began  caracoling  about 
the  parlor,  in  the  wildest  and  most  graceful  man- 
ner imaginable. 

"Then  I  suppose  we  are  to  give  up  our  in- 
tended horseback  ride,  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"0,  bless  me!  no,  indeed!"  cried  Louise, 
stopping  short  in  her  dancing.  "  I  had  forgotten 
that.    No,  indeed !    Let 's  crowd  all  the  enjoy- 


SAINT   valentine's  MORNING. 


247 


ment  into  day  that  we  can !  We  '11  be  up  by 
the  first  pe  of  day,  and,  mounting  our  good 
steeds,  we  '11  *  to  the  hills !  to  the  hills,  away ! ' " 

"  But  will  you  not  crowd  too  much  into  one 
day?" 

"  Too  much  enjoyment? — who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  ? " 

"  Not  you,  ma  mignonne,  I  '11  be  bound.  Do 
you  know  there  is  a  superstition  that  the  first 
gentleman  one  meets,  on  Saint  Valentine's  morn- 
ing, is  to  be  one's  future  husband  ? " 

"  No,  —  is  there  ? "  asked  the  little  beauty,  her 
bright  eyes  flashing  at  the  thought  of  additional 
fun ;  "  then  we  '11  surely  have  our  ride ;  and  we  '11 
make  it  a  regular  husband-hunting  expedition, 
won't  we?  My  eyes  will  be  open  bright  and 
early,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  should  n't  suppose  you  would  feel  interested 
in  such  a  superstition,"  said  Adelaide,  signifi- 
cantly, looking  archly  at  her  cousin ;  "  you.  who 
are  betrothed,  and  as  goci  as  wedded ;  but  for 
me,  now  —  " 

"  Indeed,  now,"  interrupted  the  little  lady,  her 
whole  manner  instantly  changing,  —  tossing  her 


348 


SAINT   valentine's  KO/iKfTNO. 


ii 


head  scornfully,  arching  her  3ip  pt;>;id!T,  and 
looking  indignation,  -^  "  indeed,  now,  Couisin 
Adelaide,  I  don't  kuov  what  you  mean  by  saying 
I  am  betrothed,  and  as  good  «s  wedded." 

"You  don  t,  indeed!  Wiiat  would  Horace 
Grey  say,  think  you.  to  bear  an  avowai  of  such 
J!»  loranc'i  ? " 

**  He  might  say  what  he  pleased,  for  all  that  I 
should  care.  It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me 
what  he  says,  upon  any  subject." 

"  Heigho,  Louise !  How  very  lofty  you  are ! 
But  what 's  the  matter  ?  Are  not  Horace  Grey 
and  you  friends  ? " 

"  We  have  been.'* 

"  But  are  not  now  ?  '* 

"  But  are  not  now.  Our  unfortunate  engage- 
ment is  ended ;  and  I  beg  you  '11  never  mention 
Mr.  Grey's  name  again,  in  my  presence,"  she 
added,  with  an  attempt  at  dignity  that  made  her 
cousin  smile. 

"  But,  pray,  Louise,  what  has  caused  this  sud- 
deii  estrangement  ? " 

"O,  don't  ask  me  anyth? '>:  bout  it,"  replied 
:h/j  now  saddened  girl.       ■    im  not  to  be  tyran- 


SAINT  VALENTINE^S  MORNINQ. 


249 


nized  over,  nor  to  be  dictated  to,  by  a  husbajtdt  — 
much  less  by  a  lover.  I  am  glad  our  acquaintance 
is  over,  for  I  am  much  happier  than  I  was  before ;" 
her  face  and  voice  both  giving  the  lie  to  this  as- 
sertion, as  it  was  evident  she  was  on  the  point  of 
bursting  into  tears ;  "  and  now,  cousin,  if  we  are 
going  to  rise  early,  we  must  to  bed  immediately." 

Unusual  seriousness  settled  on  the  face  of 
Louise;  her  gayety  had  fled.  A  painful  chord 
had  been  touched ;  and  the  cousins  soon  withdrew 
to  their  common  sleeping-room,  in  silence,  and 
disrobed  for  the  night.  Adelaide  forbore  any  fur- 
ther attempts  at  conversation,  seeing  that  Louise 
preferred  it ;  and  she  was  fast  sinking  into  slum- 
ber, when  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  stifled  sob, 
and,  rousing  herself,  found  Louise  in  an  agony 
of  tears.  Drawing  her  tenderly  to  her  bosom, 
she  endeavored  to  draw  from  her  the  secret  of  her 
grief;  but,  failing  in  this,  she  soothed  and  quieted 
her,  till,  at  last,  her  troubles  were  lost  in  sleep. 

Louise  Linton  was  an  only  child,  an  heiress, 
and  p  beauty.  Petted,  indulged,  humored,  ca- 
ressed, and  ^f'  tered,  she  had  become  wayward, 
selfish,  cctpricious,  aud  tickle;  and,  but  for  the 


i&M 


250 


SAINT  valentine's  MOBNINO. 


good  influences  exerted  upon  her  by  her  cousin 
Adelaide,  the  eirly  death  of  whose  parents  had 
made  her  a  member  of  the  same  family  circle, 
she  might  have  been  utterly  spoiled.  Older, 
more  thoughtful,  less  highly  favored  by  nature 
and  fortune,  Adelaide  was  yet  endowed  with  a 
most  beautiful  spirit,  a  strong,  clear  mind,  and 
the  most  correct  principles.  A  strong  attachment 
had  sprung  up  between  the  two  cousins,  —  an 
attachment  almost  maternal  on  the  part  of  Ade- 
laide; and,  in  consequence,  some  of  the  most 
glaring  faults  of  Louise,  arising  from  a  defective 
education,  had  been  gradually  but  effectually 
remedied.  The  work  of  improvement  was  still 
going  on,  silently,  almost  unconsciously ;  and  the 
impressible  but  warped  nature  of  Louise  was 
being  slowly  moulded  into  symmetry  and  beauty, 
by  the  strong-minded,  harmoniously-developed 
Adelaide. 

Her  great  beauty  and  most  attractive  manners 
had  captivated  the  fancy  of  Horace  Grey,  at  first, 
and  an  acquaintance  with  the  young  heiress  had 
stolen  his  heart.  He  was  some  eight  years  older 
than  she,  —  manly,  upright,  enth':>.;^'astic  in  his 


SAINT   valentine's  MURNIN9. 


251 


love  of  the  good  and  beautiful,  thoughtful  and 
studious.  It  seemed  strange  that  his  heart 
should  settle  on  so  giddy  a  creature  as  Louise ; 
but  no  one  could  doubt  the  fact,  who  witnessed 
his  devotion.  Louise,  in  return,  loved  him  with 
the  entireness  of  an  undivided  heart,  and  sought 
to  elevate  herself  to  his  lofty  standard,  and  to 
render  herself  worthy  of  him.  Adelaide,  who 
had  watched  the  growth  of  their  mutual  affection, 
predicted,  in  her  own  heart,  the  happiest  results 
to  Louise  from  her  betrothal,  and  prayed  most 
earnestly  that  there  might  be  an  assimilation  of 
their  spirits,  —  an  ultimate  complete  blen'^jr:;: 
of  their  natures,  —  necessary  to  perfect  happiness 
in  wedded  life. 

Louise  could  not,  however,  correct  all  her 
faults  at  once.  She  had  a  spice  of  coquetry  in 
her  nature,  and  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to 
the  belleship  of  the  circle  in  which  she  '•  .  \  — 
had  become  so  used  to  subduing  hearts,  and  to 
indulge  in  meaningless  flirtations,  —  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  her  to  renounce,  immedi- 
ately, the  homage  paid  her,  or  to  withstand  the 
flattery  and  adulation  yet  sweet  to  her.    Though 


25^ 


«A1NT  valentine's   MORNING. 


her  heart  was  wholly  Horace  Grey's,  she  now 
and  then  indulged  in  a  flirtation  which  she  per- 
suaded herself  was  harmless,  but  which  greatly 
annoyed  Y.im  to  whom  she  was  betrothed,  who 
was  himself  guilty  of  no  such  weaknesses.  These 
had  drawn  forth  many  a  remonstrance  from  her 
lover,  which  were  received  with  tears,  with 
promises  of  amendment,  and  expressions  of  peni- 
tence, which  bound  her  to  his  heart  more  closely 
than  ever. 

On  the  last  occasion  of  his  protest  jainst  this, 
her  besetting  sin,  he  had  expressed  himself  in 
stronger  language  than  usual,  thereby  greatly 
rousing  the  ire  of  his  lady-love,  who,  to  the 
astonishment  of  Grey,  protested  angrily  against 
his  tyi-anny,  accused  him  of  petty  domineering, 
avowed  her  dete .  mination  to  do  as  she  pleased, 
and,  Anally,  closed  her  angry  tirade  by  a  demand 
to  bo  instantly  released  from  her  engagement  to 
him,  which  shr  pronounced  "i^k^ome,  odious, 
and  hatefn] 

A3tonished,  angry,  and  grieved,  Grey  immedi- 
ately complied  with  the  sudden  request;  and, 
before  Louise  had  recovered  from  her  anger,  they 


SAINT  valentine's  MORNING. 


253 


had  parted,  both  wretched,  both  angry,  and  both 
persuaded  that  earth  could  give  no  future  happi- 
ness. 

Louise  was  the  more  wretched  of  the  two ;  for 
to  the  sorrows  of  wounded  affection  were  added, 
in  her  case,  the  pangs  of  remorse.  She  strove  to 
conceal  her  trouble,  and,  by  affecting  an  unusual 
gayety,  had  succeeded  in  retaining  her  secret 
within  her  own  heart,  until  it  was  drawn  from 
her  by  her  cousin,  as  narrated.  She  was  not, 
however,  a  skilful  dissimulator ;  and  the  moment 
the  fact  of  her  broken  engagement  became  known 
to  another,  all  her  (;ourage  forsook  her,  and  she 
abandoned  herself  to  passionate  tears.  She  loved 
Grey  tenderly  and  proudly ;  —  every  pulsation 
of  her  heart  was  his,  and  the  withdrawal  of  his 
love  was  like  the  blotting  out  of  the  sunlight  to 
her  spirit.  She  was  proud  of  his  elegant  figure, 
and  handsome  person;  of  his  fine  talents,  and 
social  position ;  she  knew  no  woman  who  might 
not  feel  honored  to  call  him  husband ;  and  she 
now  feared  he  was  lost  to  her  forever,  and  that 
she  could  never  win  him  back,  after  so  greatly 
annoying,  and  then  so  rudely  repulsing  him.  It 
22 


254 


8AINT  valentine's  MORNING. 


was  these  ever-present  thoughts  thnt  caused  the 
tears  she  shed  cm  her  cousin's  bosom,  who  guessed 
the  trouble  that  Louise  hesitated  to  avow. 

Morning  came,  and,  as  Adelaide  awoke  the  lit- 
tle gypsy  from  a  deep  slumber,  she  was  not  sorry 
to  see  that  the  traces  of  the  last  night's  showery 
grief  were  nearly  gone,  and  that  her  spirits  were 
buoyed  up  and  excited  by  the  prospect  of  the 
day's  enjoyment.  They  were  soon  equipped, 
and,  mounting  their  spirited  steeds,  were  away 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  town,  where  the  scenery 
rose  from  the  picturesque  and  romantic  into  the 
bold,  the  wild,  and  sublime.  They  had  taken  so 
early  a  start,  that  they  met  no  one  on  their  way 
thither;  and,  in  the  absence  of  all  restraint,  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  exhilaration  of  the  exciting 
exercise  they  were  taking.  The  morning  was  a 
delightful  one  for  winter ;  the  air,  fresh  and  brac- 
ing, wantoned  with  their  tresses,  gave  brilliance 
to  their  eyes,  and  vermilion  to  their  cheeks  and 
lips ;  and,  as  they  were  borne  over  hill  and  valley, 
their  spirits  rose  higher  and  higher,  till  the  usu- 
ally calm,  serious  Adelaide  was  wild  with  excite- 


-^\ 


SAINT   valentine's   MORNING. 


255 


ment,  while  the  gay  Louise  gave  vent  to  her 
exuberant  spirits  in  laughter  and  song. 

At  last,  they  reached  their  point  of  destination, 
—  a  bold,  steep  elevation,  which  commanded  an 
extensive  prospect,  in  whose  rugged  and  cran- 
nied sides  many  a  dwarfed  pine-tree  and  hardy 
evergreen  shrub  had  rooted  itself,  relieving  it  of 
its  boldness,  and  giving  it,  in  winter,  even  a 
pleasant  appearance.  Here  they  halted  to  take 
breath,  and  to  survey  the  scenery.  The  distant 
town,  with  its  white  dwellings  and  churches ;  the 
intervening  river,  sheeted  with  ice,  and  glittering 
like  crystal  in  the  morning  sun ;  the  cultivated 
farms,  with  their  various  appurtenances;  then 
the  increasingly  wild  and  broken  face  of  th^ 
country ;  and,  at  last,  the  clustering,  rocky,  ra; 
ged  hills,  which  nature  had  rudely  tumbieu. 
together,  —  here  a  narrow  defile  between  them, 
and  there  a  yawning  chasm,  far  down  in  whose 
depths  tumbled  a  black,  troubled  stream,  whose 
wild  leapings  the  severest  cold  of  winter  could 
not  tame,  —  on  one  side,  bleak,  stern  hills  of 
granite,  lifting  their  bare  heads  to  heaven ;  on  the 
other,  gentler  elevations,  crowned  with  perennial 


256 


SAINT  VALENTIKE'S  MORIfQfQ, 


verdure ;  large  masses  of  dazzlingly  white  snow, 
lying  piled  up  in  hollows,  and  covering  the  high 
lands,  for  miles,  —  all  these  together,  glistening 
with  the  heavy  frost  of  the  preceding  night,  and 
gleaming  in  the  wintry  atmosphere,  made  up  a 
prospect  on  which  the  eyes  of  the  fair  maidens, 
who  were  ardent  worshippers  of  nature,  feasted 
long  and  admiringly.  But,  tt  last,  remembering 
the  waning  morning,  and  the  various  employ- 
ments and  amusements  that  were  to  be  crowded 
into  the  brief  and  already  far-advanced  day,  they 
descended  the  hill,  and  turned  their  horses'  heads 
homeward. 

"Well,  but  what  does  this  mean?"  inquired 
Louise  of  her  companion,  as  they  cantered 
rapidly  homeward.  "We  did  not  meet  a  single 
gentleman  on  our  way  to  the  'Rocks,'  and  we 
are  not  likely  to  meet  one  on  our  way  back. 
Whp*  "nay  this  portend,  Addy  ? " 

*  O,  a  life  of  single  blessedness,  probably," 
laughingly  replied  Adelaide.  "  As  for  myself,  it 
was  all  I  expected  from  the  omens  of  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Don't  predict  single  blessedness  for  me!    I 


SAINT   valentine's  MORNING. 


257 


protest  against  it !  I  shall  not  accept  it !  I  must 
get  a  glimpse  of  some  swain,  before  I  reach  home, 
if  it  be  only  an  Irish  hod-carrier.  I  have  no 
desire  to  *  keep  my  maiden  peace,  still  calm  and 
fancy  free,'  as  the  song  has  it." 

"  I  do  not  know  as  you  deserve  anything  bet- 
ter,  after  having  discarded  —  " 

"  See !  see !  "  interrupted  Louise,  eagerly ;  "  is 
not  that  a  gentleman  on  horseback,  just  coming 
on  the  bridge  ? " 

"  Yes ;  Saint  Valentine  is  going  to  prove  pro- 
pitious, after  all." 

"Now,  then,  my  destiny  is  to  be  decided. 
How  do  I  look,  Adelaide,  —  like  a  fright  ? '' 

"  No ;  most  bewitchingly  beautiful,  of  course. 
But  no  matter  how  you  look,  as  it 's  only  Horace 
Grey  coming." 

"  Who  ?  —  what  ?  —  Horace  Grey  ? "  and,  rein- 
ing in  her  palfrey  suddenly  and  violently,  she 
came  to  a  dead  halt.  "Let's  turn  and  go 
back ! "  she  said,  with  her  usual  impulsiveness ; 
"  let's  go  back ! "  at  the  same  moment  turning 
her  horse's  head. 

"  No,  indeed,  Louise ;  don't  think  of  anything 
22* 


258 


SAINT  valentine's   MORNING, 


SO  absurd.  You  will  make  yourself  ridiculous. 
Come  on ! "  she  continued,  endeavoring  to  seize 
the  bridle  of  her  horse.  "  Are  you  afraid  of  Mr. 
Grey?" 

"  No ;  but  I  will  not  meet  him ! "  she  replied, 
with  much  resolution ;  and  wheeling  round,  as  a 
sudden  thought  seized  her,  she  added,  "  We  are 
by  the  river's  side,  and  I  will  cross  it.  The  ice 
will  bear.  I  will  vrait  on  the  other  side,  while 
you  come  round  by  the  bridge ;  so  adieu^  ma  belle 
cousine^ — au  revoir ! "  and  kissing  her  hand  gayly, 
in  farewell,  she  dashed  wildly  down  to  the  river. 

"  Stop,  Louise !"  shrieked  Adelaide,  in  terror; 
"  stop !  the  river  is  not  frozen  over  the  channel. 
For  Heaven's  sake,  come  back !  Don't  venture 
on  the  ice ! "  and  she  followed  after,  imploring 
her  return,  in  agony. 

But  Louise  was  excited,  and  the  reckless  dar- 
ing of  the  thing  pleased  her.  Just  casting  a 
glance  back  at  her  terrified  cousin,  and  laughing 
gayly  and  mockingly,  she  urged  her  palfrey  to  a 
yet  madder  speed,  and  dashed  on  to  what  seemed 
certain  destruction,  the  long  plumes  of  her  blue 
riding-cap  streaming  wildly  in  the  wind,  and  the 


SAINT   VALENTINE'S   MORNING. 


269 


ample  folds  of  her  long  azure  habit  flowmg  back 
upon  the  flanks  of  her  horse. 

But  there  was  another  who  had  witnessed  this 
mad-cap  movement  of  Louise,  with  more  distress 
even  than  Adelaide.  As  Horace  Grey  came  oflf 
the  bridge,  he  had  recognized  the  cousins,  and 
had  instantly  comprehended  the  cause  of  Louise's 
halting.  A  feeling  of  mingled  indignation  and 
sorrow  came  over  him,  at  this  decided  expression 
of  aversion ;  but  this  gave  way  to  emotions  of 
horror,  as  he  saw  her  head  her  horse  towards  the 
river,  with  the  evident  intention  of  crossing  it. 
The  stream  here  was  deep,  und  ran  swiftly,  ren- 
dering it  an  unsafe  place  for  crossing  in  the 
coldest  weather,  bat  now  doubly  pei'ious,  fronr. 
the  lateness  and  mildness  of  the  season.  More- 
over, he  saw,  what  had  escaped  Louise's  observa- 
tion, that  the  river  was  not  much  frozen  in  the 
middle;  and  he  judged  rightly,  that  the  ice 
around  was  brittle,  and,  perhaps,  detached  from 
the  main  body. 

Putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  as  he  saw  the 
imminent  peril  of  the  wild  girl,  whom  he  loved, 
at  this  moment,  immeasurably,  he  followed  after 


260 


SAINT   valentine's  MORNING. 


her,  calling  on  her  name  loudly  and  imploringly, 
and  using  every  means  to  arrest  hn  attention ; 
but  in  vain,  —  Louise,  deaf  to  his  cries,  and 
madly  intent  on  carrying  her  point,  dashed  on  as 
furiously  as  ever.  There  was  nothing  to  impede 
her  progress,  and  in  a  moment  her  horse's  hoofs 
were  clattering  on  the  ice,  when,  looking  over 
her  shoulder,  and  perceiving,  as  she  supposed, 
both  Grey  and  her  couiin  in  pursuit,  she  re- 
doubled her  already  terrible  speed.  A  deep 
groan  came  from  the  depths  of  his  soul,  as  he 
saw  her  blindness  tc  her  danger ;  and,  dismount- 
ing from  nis  steed  at  the  river's  brink,  he  yielded, 
for  a  moment,  to  the  sickness  of  heart  that  stole 
over  him.  But  he  could  no*  so  resign  her  to 
death,  and  made  one  more  e^xt  to  arrest  her 
progress. 

"  Louise ! "  he  shouted,  while  .is  Maite  lips 
quivered,  and  a  cold  dew  oozed  out  on  his  brow; 
"Louise,  stop !  You  c;innot  cross  the  river ! 
You  will  perish  in  the  attempt !  For  the  love 
of  Heaven,  stop!  Tu.  ice  already  bends  under 
you  !  otop,  or  you  will  perish  !  "  Every  nerve 
in  his  system  was  drawn  to  its  utmost  tension 


SAINT    VALEWfTNE's   MOHNINO'. 


261 


already,  by  his  anxiety  for  her ,  and  he  leaned 
against  his  horse  in  a  state  of  exhaustion,  as  he 
beheld  her  still  flying  on  to  death,  unarrested  by 
his  voice. 

But  she  stopped,  at  last,  suddenly,  and  as  in 
affright,  while  a  piercing  shriek  was  borne  to  the 
ears  of  those  who  were  watching  her,  who  saw, 
at  the  same  time,  that  her  hands  were  stretched 
imploringly  towards  them.  Suddenly  she  had 
found  herself  on  the  brink  of  a  yawning  chasm, 
and  had  felt  the  footing  of  her  horse  failing  under 
him.  Pulling  upon  the  rein,  she  tried  to  turn 
him ;  but  the  rotten  ice  was  cracked  around,  and 
his  efforts  to  gain  a  surer  footing  only  disturbed 
the  detached  blocks,  sending  them  out  into  the 
open  stream,  rer  lering  the  chasm  wider  and  the 
danger  greater.  With  distended  nostrils,  and 
eye«  starting  from  their  sockets,  the  noble  beast 
leaped  and  struggled  to  save  himself, — spring- 
ing from  one  sinking  mass  of  ice  to  another,  and 
neighing  in  wild  affright,  —hut  his  struggles 
were  to  no  purpfw?,  and,  at  last,  uttering  an 
almost  human  cry  of  agony,  he  sank  under  the 
disturbcil  Wfiteri. 


262 


SAINT  VALENTINES   MORNING. 


Louise  perceived  that  her  steed  was  sinking 
under  her,  and,  disengaging  herself  from  the 
saddle,  and  gathering  in  her  hand  the  long  folds 
of  her  habit,  she  leaped  towards  a  large,  loose 
mass  of  ice  floating  beside  her,  at  the  same  time 
catching  a  glimpse  of  Horace  Grey  flying  over 
the  sheeted  river  to  her  relief,  and  faintly  hearing 
his  voice  uttering  words  of  encouragement,  and 
assuring  her  of  aid.  But  she  did  not  reach  the 
ice,  and  her  lover  and  cousin  saw  her  disappear 
far  down  beneath  the  cold,  black,  running  water, 
with  anguish  inexpressible. 

Adelaide  involuntarily  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  sight,  while  Grey, 
to  whose  feet  love  and  anguish  had  given  wings, 
flew  to  the  spot  where  she  had  sunk,  saying,  "  I 
will  save  her,  or  perish  with  her ! "  But  when 
he  came  to  where  he  had  last  seen  her,  there 
was  no  trace  of  her  to  be  seen.  Further  down 
the  stream  he  beheld  the  reeking  head  and  blood- 
streaming  nostrils  of  her  pony  above  the  water, 
who  was  making  a  last  effort  at  self-preservation. 
Thither  he  hastened,  leaping  from  one  block  of 
ice  to  another,  and  gazing  downward  with  strain- 


SAINT  valentine's  MORNING. 


263 


ing  eyes  and  a  palpitating  heart.  At  last,  he 
descried  her  receding  form  far  down  in  the  water, 
dragged  downwards  by  the  weight  of  her  heavy 
garments;  and  having  already  disencumbered 
himself  of  the  most  burdensome  portions  of  his 
clothing,  he  plunged  in,  and  brought  her  to  the 
surface,  pale,  unconscious,  and  apparently  dead. 

Lifting  her  head  above  the  water,  he  made  his 
way  among  the  loose  blocks  of  ice  that  were 
floating  down  the  river,  until,  feeling  himself 
failing  from  exhaustion,  he  supported  himself  and 
his  precious  burden  upon  a  large  mass  that  moved 
more  slowly  along,  and  upon  which  he  eventually 
gained  a  footing.  It  gave  temporary  support,  but 
he  felt  it  sinking,  and  leaped  to  another,  and 
another,  until,  finally,  by  superhuman  e>.ertions, 
he  stood  upon  the  main  body  of  ice  that  covered 
the  river,  with  Louise  folded  to  his  heart.  An 
exclamation  of  gratitude  burst  from  his  inmost 
soul,  as  he  perceived  that  her  heart  pulsed  with 
life,  though  but  feebly;  and,  folding  his  cloak 
warmly  around  her,  he  bore  her  to  the  shore,  as 
one  would  a  babe.  Adelaide  came  to  meet  him, 
proffering  her  assistance,  which  he  declined  with 


264 


SAINT  valentine's   MORNING. 


a  gesture,  for  his  full  and  excited  heart  would  not 
allow  of  words ;  and  still  holding  her  in  his  arms, 
he  seateu  himself  in  the  saddle,  and  urged  his 
horse  to  the  nearest  house,  when  he  resigned  her 
to  the  care  and  attentions  of  others.  Even  then, 
he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  take  thought  for  his 
own  comfort;  nor  could  he  be  drawn  from  her 
bedside  until  she  was  pronounced  out  of  danger, 
when  his  glad  and  grateful  emotions  vented 
themselves  in  tears. 


Evening  came,  and  the  brilliantly  lighted  hall 
was  thronged  with  the  graceful  figures  of  fleet 
and  airy  dancers,  clad  in  fancy  costumes ;  and 
music,  mirth,  and  gayety,  ruled  the  hour.  But 
Louise  Linton,  who  had  proudly  reckoned  to 
grace  the  scene  with  her  beautiful  presence,  was 
not  there.  Often  was  her  name  mentioned,  during 
the  evening,  coupled  with  expressions  of  regret  at 
her  absence,  and  of  sorrow  for  her  bitter  disap- 
pointment. But  there  was  not  a  heart  in  that 
gay  assembly  that  throbbed  with  such  deep  and 
holy  happiness  as  did  hers  on  that  evening, 
though  lying  in  a  dimly-lighted  chamber,  on  a 


SAINT   valentine's   MORNING. 


265 


couch  of  weakness.  Beside  her  sat  Horace 
Grey,  for  whom  she  had  first  inquired,  when 
consciousness  was  restored,  and  who,  with  irre- 
pressible tenderness,  had  kissed  away  the  tears 
of  penitence  that  flowed  from  the  beautiful  eyes 
of  his  beloved,  assuring  her  of  the  pardon  for 
which  her  pale  and  trembling  lips  would  have  sued, 
and  folding  her  to  his  warm  heart  with  a  love  a 
thousand-fold  increased  by  the  events  of  the  day. 
The  hours  passed  away  in  that  sweet  companion- 
ship known  only  to  loving  hearts,  —  in  frank 
confession  of  faults,  with  heartfelt  promises  of 
amendment ;  in  generous  expressions  of  trust  and 
affection,  and  in  df^lightful  planning  for  the  now 
rose-colored  future 

Soon,  "  Cousir  Addy "  glided  in,  making  a 
third  one  in  the  happy  party;  and  though  she 
saw  the  cheek  of  Louise  was  pale,  and  her  lip 
tremulous,  she  could  not  forbear  rallying  her  a 
little. 

"  You  will  never  have  faith  in  the  superstition 
connected  with  Sa.'  t  V^alentine's  morning,  after 
this,"  she  said ;  "  the  practical  working  of  it  has 
proved  so  very  adverse  to  your  wishes  to-day." 
fl3 


266 


SAINT  VALENTIME'S  MOEMWO. 


Louise  looked  a  tender  reproof;  but  Grey 
answered,  gayly,  "  0  yes ;  faith  in  that  supersti- 
tion is  to  be  a  part  of  our  religious  creed,  here- 
after. We  were  both  baptized  into  it,  this 
morning;  and  Saint  Valentine  is  to  fce  our  favor- 
ite saint,  henceforth  and  forever.  We  are  not 
sure  that  we  shall  not  build  him  an  altar,  some 
day." 

"  As  matters  stand  now,  you  had  better  build 
yourself  a  house^  as  soon  as  possible.  Unless 
you  cage  your  bird,  it  may  attempt  to  fly  again, 
and  then  you  may  have  another  wild-goose  chase 
m  pursuit." 

"Just  do  me  the  favor  to  box  Addy'e  ears," 
now  spoke  Louise,  smiling  faintly. 

"And  when  she  is  stronger,  she  will  repay 
you  with  interest,"  added  Adelaide. 

And  so  they  continued  to  chat,  in  free  and 
careless  converse,  until  the  lateness  of  the  hour 
warned  them  to  retire,  when  they  sought  their 
rest,  happier  and  better  for  the  trials  of  the  day. 


TK 


V.   SELS. 


BY    MRS. 


SAWTKS. 


"  Noble  ship !  with  silken  streamers, 
Floating  on  the  summer  breeze, 

Sailing,  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 
O'er  the  deep  and  silent  seas. 

Swiftly  as  the  cloud-cast  shadow 
O'er  the  sunny  landscape  flees,  — 

"  From  the  same  far  country  voyaging. 
Pilgrims  o'er  the  same  wide  sea, 

Furl,  I  pray,  thy  sails  of  beauty. 
Tarry  yet  a  while  for  me ! 

Though  my  bark  be  small  and  humble, 
Let  me  bear  thee  company. 


"Fearful  is  the  seaman's  loneness. 
Who  nor  friend  nor  comrade  hath, 
While  across  the  trackless  ocean 
He  pursues  his  silent  path  • 


1 


v^  \^  ^3^ 


<s 


^ 


^ 


> 


^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0     ^^  Vi 

lu  114 


1.1 


m 


mt^^ 

'    ^ 

< 

6"     

► 

^ 


w 


7 


PholDgraiiiic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WE»STER,N.Y.  MSM 

(716)a72-4S03 


268 


THE   TWO   VESSELS. 


Fearful  in  the  calm  that  wakes  not, 
Or  the  tempest's  sleepless  wrath. 

"  Thus  upon  these  heaving  watei*s 
Long  and  lonely  have  I  been; 

Silent  stars  have  journeyed  o'er  me, 
All  around  were  waters  green, 

And  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight 
Glimmered  with  a  lonely  sheen. 

"  Linger,  then,  thou  noble  vessel,  — 
Mirth  and  joy  are  on  thy  deck ; 

Gay  forms  to  and  fro  are  flitting, 
Who  of  pain  nor  sorrow  reck ; 

God  forbid  that  aught  of  evil 

E'er  their  harmless  glee  should  check ! 


"  Like  the  song  of  some  sea-maiden. 
In  the  far-dowTi  ocean-caves,      ^ 

Music  from  their  lips  comes  stealing 
Sweetly  o'er  the  dark-green  waves. 

Blending  with  the  billow's  chiming. 
That  my  little  shallop  laves. 


THE   TWO   VESSELS. 

"  Pause  a  while,  then,  noble  yessel ; 

From  thy  deck  a  cable  cast 
To  my  little  bounding  shallop,  — 

I  will  make  it  strong  and  fast ; 
Blest  by  tones  from  human  voices, 

Little  shall  I  heed  the  blast." 

"  Little  bark,  the  ocean  skimming. 
What  art  thou,  that,  on  our  way, 

When  the  winds  our  sails  are  filling, 
Spreading  wide  our  streamers  gay, 

Bearing  us  so  fleetly  onward. 
We  for  one  like  thee  should  stay  ? 

"  Whiit  to  thee  the  voice  of  music. 
Mellow  flute  and  sounding  harp  ? 
What  the  ray  from  soft  eyes  gleaming, 
Like  the  stars,  when  night  is  dark  ? 
Stay  us  not  amid  our  pleasure ; 
Fare  thee  well,  thou  little  bark ! " 

"  Fare  thee  well,  then,  haughty  vessel, 
I  thy  cruel  haste  forgive ; 

22* 


269 


6i£[&UUiUii 


270 


THE  TWO  VESSELS. 


Though  alone  upon  the  ocean, 
'Neath  the  eye  of  God  I  live ! 

I  forgive  thee !  and,  in  parting. 
Heed  the  warning  that  I  give ! 

"  When  the  darkness  gathers  round  tnee, 
As  the  daylight  fades  away. 

And  the  heavy  wings  of  slumber 
On  thy  crew  unguarded  lay. 

Then  a  dark  and  sullen  stranger 
To  thy  rudder  takes  his  way. 


C( 


On  hiu  brow,  so  pale  and  ghastly. 
Sits  a  smile  to  waken  fear, 

While  his  lips  to  viewless  comrades 
Whisper  words  thou  canst  not  hear; 

0 !  beware  the  gloomy  steersman !  — 
Danger  threats  when  he  is  near. 


"  When  most  madly  leap  the  billows, 
Wildest  wars  the  angry  blast ; 
When  the  fiercest  flash  the  lightnings. 
Loudest  groans  the  straining  mast,  — 


!?■ 


THE  TWO  VESSELS. 


271 


Then  the  dark  and  sullen  stranger 
Holds  thy  rudder  strong  and  fast." 

"  Many  thanks,  thou  lonely  boatman, 
For  thy  warning  kindly  made, 
But  my  bolts  are  staunchly  driven, 

And  my  keel  is  deeply  laid ; 
With  the  foul  fiend  for  a  steersman. 
Little  should  I  be  afraid ! " 

"  Fare  thee  well,  a  little  while,  then,  — 
Speed  thy  proud  way  o'er  the  main ; 

And  forgive  that  for  a  moment 
I  have  stayed  thy  course  in  vain; 

On  a  shore  where  all  are  equal 
We,  ere  long,  shall  meet  again. 


"  One  same  solemn  doom  awaits  us,  — 
Nay,  forbear  thy  bootless  wrath  !  — 

Shallop  frail  and  kingly  vessel. 
Ruled  by  one  resistless  breath, 

On  the  same  rock  will  be  shattered. 
For  the  steersman's  name  is  DEATH ! " 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

A  YOUTHFUL  matron,  mild  and  fair, 

With  hair  of  golden  sheen, 
She  sat  beside  the  cottage  door, 

Beneath  a  leafy  screen. 

For  trees  stretched  wide  their  arms  above, 
Between  her  and  the  sky,  «fc' 

And  birds  sat  singing  in  the  boughs. 
Trying  their  minstrelsy. 

Afar  there  gambolled  on  the  green. 

In  wild  and  gleeful  mirth, 
The  little  ones,  whose  shout  and  song 

Gave  sunshine  to  the  earth. 

Such  bliss  was  rooted  in  her  heart. 

Song  only  could  reveal ; 
And  so  she  trolled  a  simple  layi 

Beside  her  spinning-wheel. 


•:#, 


m 


'VAinai    >11U> 


fff-"^'. 


:„%i.'-^  i 


i 


# 


■  4 

4 


^■# 


■.»,.,  ,/«.:i«».V' 


■%;'■ 


Tin,  SPINNTNGWHEEI. 

A  touT«Ki.'u  mafiroTi,  niiid  and  fair, 

Wid)  huir  of  ifoid*:-!!  shorn. 
She  SRi  bf'aidf,  the  cottage  door, 

Be»''ath  «  leaty  >'  ri^en. 

For  trees  stretched  wide  their  ftnus  above, 
B« I %vs- -. I.  Her  ap d  t h i ^  sk y , 

Andi»:.  r-'  .  ,i  ai^tisg  m  $]»«  bo'ighi?, 

Trying  I; i'..-  =-i  i.'i^icp^.itflf. 


.*»•" 


In  tt-Hd  s*  •♦*i  fli**^  uMi, 
The  little  aiw#*  v/^x^rn^  shout  and  &ong 
Gave  sunr^hints!  !».  ik^  carlh. 


SucVi  bliss  was  rooted  in  ber  )wtif% 

Song  only  could  re \eiil; 
And  so  she  rrojled  a  Rtmpl*?  J&y, 
•^a^>,.i|^fe)^)ie»idc  her  spinriiniJ'Wheel. 


R  Muckner  Mux! 


i. 


W' 


■R  HuctaieT  Mnit. 


HW  Smith  Sc 


Tr'[}=a[E    g^FOI^ff^lif^CE    W[KlltE[L, 


^■&JSilU^.-     :-i!."-.'*i,i. 


THE   SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Fast,  fast  her  slender  fingers  wrought, 

And  fast  the  spindle  flew, 
And  larger  was  the  fine-spun  web 

That  by  her  labor  grew. 

0 !  what  to  her  were  Fashion's  halls, 
Where  Pleasure  seems  to  dwell. 

Where  wealth  dispenses  luxury. 
And  mirth  and  music  swell  ? 


273 


She  toiled  for  those  she  lived  to  love, 
And  asked  no  happier  lot ;  > 

So  labor  lost  its  weariness, 
And,  singing,  still  she  wrought. 


O !  love  can  lighten  every  load. 
Remove  each  care  we  feel. 

And  e'en  in  stem  and  homely  toil 
Some  beauty  can  reveal, 

As  she  found  pleasure  and  delight 
Beside  her  spinning-wheel. 


M.  A.  L. 


THE  DEFAULTING  BROOK. 

A   STORY    FOR    OLD    AND    YOUNO,    HIGH    AND  LOW, 
RICH   AND   POOR. 


BT    MRS.   T.   P.   SMITH. 

"  Niagara  !  sublime,  glorious  Niagara  !  " 
echoed  a  brook,  at  whose  side  a  lady  had 
uttered  the  words,  in  describing  her  visit  to  the ' 
wonderful  cataract  to  a  friend  near  her.  And, 
as  the  brook  repeated  the  words,  she  began  to 
grow  quite  envious  and  angry  that  she  was  not 
Niagara,  and  quite  displeased  with  the  lady; 
and  rudely  pushing  too  near  where  she  stood, 
wet  her  feet,  rendering  her,  far  from  home  as  she 
was,  very  uncomfortable.  When  she  left,  the 
brook  sulked  and  pouted,  and  at  last  exclaimed, 
"  What  am  I  ?  Here  I  run,  and  run,  and  run, 
and  try  as  hard  as  Niagara  to  be  somebody ;  and, 
after  all,  I  am  only  an  insignificant  brook ! "  — 
and  then,  remembering  the  little  mill  and  the  old 
miller,  just  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  continued,  "  0 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


276 


well !  a  mill  is  only  quite  a  commonplace,  matter- 
of-fact  affair,  —  nobody  admires  that ! " 

Just  then,  the  voices  of  merry  children  were 
borne  on  the  wind  across  the  field  from  the 
school-house,  saying,  "To  the  brook!  to  the 
brook ! "  and  a  lovely  girl  of  fourteen  was  heard 
to  say,  "The  sweet  brook!"  and  added  (young 
girls  always  string  adjectives  together),  "little, 
sweet,  beautiful,  elegant  brook ! "  A  smile  of 
satisfaction  rippled,  the  face  of  the  brook  at  this, 
but  bad  feelings  soon  displaced  it;  and  saying, 
"  Poh !  poh !  only  children ! "  very  contemptu- 
ously, she  turned  from  them,  as,  putting  their 
mouths  or  their  feet  into  the  water,  as  was  most 
grateful,  they  played  upon  her  banks. 

Disregarding  the  sweet  cheering  of  childhood, 
the  brook  grew  more  and  more  discontented ;  and, 
as  their  admiration  and  joy  were  very  evident, 
she  grew  sentimental,  and  said,  "Well,  nobody 
else  loves  me  or  prizes  me,  but  children ! " 

In  a  moment  after,  the  brook  was  startled  by  a 
noise,  and  looking  further  up  stream,  beheld  a 
fine  herd  of  cattle,  driven  by  a  good-looking 
farmer,  stepping  into  the  water,  for  their  noon 


276 


THE   DEFAULTING  BROOK. 


drink.  With  a  contemptuous  rush,  the  brook 
moved  past  them,  wondering  how  Niagara  would 
water  cattle ;  and,  running  on,  very  soon  cows, 
children,  school,  and  fields,  wore  left  behind,  and, 
all  alone  in  the  wild  woods,  the  brook  thought 
she  could  murmur  and  make  herself  us  miserable 
as  she  pleased.  "  O !  I  am  so  sick  of  men,  man- 
ners, and  life!  Here,  in  solitude,  I  will  keep 
aloof,  and  be  happy."  The  thought  of  the  lady 
and  Niagara  came  up  again,  and  she  so  id,  "0! 
if  I  was  only  a  waterfall !  even  a  small  one !  — 
then  would  somebody  admire  me ;  but  now  I  am 
only  a  brook  ! " 

Soon,  a  step  was  heard ;  a  man  was  seen  ad- 
vancing  towards  the  brook,  with  a  knapsack  on 
his  back,  and  a  staff  in  his  hand,  —  a  handsome, 
intelligent-looking  young  fellow,  —  evidently  a 
recruit,  enlisted  for  the  war.  He  took  ofT  his 
hat,  and  sat  down,  and  leaning  his  head  upon  his 
hand,  one  might  have  seen,  soldier  though  he  was, 
tears  straggling  through  his  fingers.  At  length, 
the  cause  of  them  was  made  manifest.  "Ah! 
pretty  brook,"  said  he,  "I  am  now  to  bid  thee 
adieu '  —  to  part  from  thee,  my  last  friend,  per- 


THE   DEFAULTINQ  SHOOK. 


277 


haps  forever.  When  a  child,  I  dabbled  in  thy 
waters,  near  my  father's  house ;  —  a  larger  child, 
I  sailed  my  tiny  boat  in  thy  stream;  made 
mimic  dams  and  bridges  over  thy  path  ;  and 
when  older,  I  waded,  fished,  and  bathed  in  thy 
waters.  Since  a  man,  my  forest  dinner  has 
always  been  gladdened  by  thee.  O!  I  shall 
think  often  of  thee,  —  in  the  dusty  march,  in  the 
camp,  on  the  battle-plain !  I  have  left  all  the 
other  loved  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  now, 
thou  last,  loved  memento,  and  boundary  of  my 
native  village,  I  bid  thee  adieu  !  When  the  vil- 
lage maidens  come  to  bind  their  hair  with  thy 
flowers,  and  to  bathe  their  brows  with  thy  waters, 
would  thou  couldst  whisper  my  name !  and  when 
Nora  comes,  couldst  tell  her  how  I  loved  her ! 
But  adieu !  I  must  have  other  thoughts  than 
these.  I  shall  have  other  pastimes  than  thinking 
of  maidens,  or  toying  with  thee,  pretty  brook ! " 
So  saying,  he  drank  once  of  the  waters  of  the 
brook,  and  passed  out  of  sight. 

"  Alone  !   once  more  alone  !  "  said  the  brook, 
unheeding  the  kind  words  which  had  fallen  from 
the  young  man's  mouth ;  and  envy  and  discon- 
24 


\T.  ■••■■'- 


278 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


tent,  those  most  baneful  of  all  passions,  drowned 
the  better  feelings  which  would  otherwise  have 
gushed  forth.  At  last,  arousing  from  a  reverie, 
the  brook  exclaimed,  "  I  '11  not  take  the  trouble 
to  run  hither  and  thither,  just  for  mere  nothing 
at  all.  If  I  was  a  great  river,  and  had  manu- 
factories on  my  banks,  then  it  would  be  worth 
while ;  or,  if  1  bore  vessels  upon  my  bosom ;  — 
but  a  brook !  —  I  '11  just  take  what  waters  I  have 
up  into  yonder  hollow,  and  perhaps  in  time  1 
may  get  enough  to  make  a  waterfall."  So  say- 
ing, the  little  brook  gathered  up  its  waters,  and 
retired  slowly  to  private  life,  in  the  hollow 
among  the  hills. 

On  a  fine  summer's  day,  farmer  Buntling 
saddled  his  mare  Dolly,  and,  putting  himself  and 
a  couple  of  bags  of  corn  astride,  set  off  for  miller 
Dusty-brown's.  As  he  neared  the  mill,  he  saw 
miller  Dusty-brown  out  in  the  field,  talking  to  his 
man  John ;  at  which  he  wondered,  as  it  was  his 
busiest  time  of  day,  and  on  pleasant  days  he  * 
never  failed  of  a  grist ;  and  as  farmer  Buntling 
had  to  wait  for  a  first  customer  sometimes,  he 
was  rather  pleased  to  catch  miller  Dusty  idle, 


THE   DEFAULTING   BBOOE. 


279 


that  he  might  get  his  corn  ground  without  delay. 
So,  giving  Dolly  a  slap  with  the  reins,  and  bid- 
ding her  "Go  lang,"  he  endeavored  to  hasten 
forward ;  but  his  admonitions  had  no  efiect  what- 
ever upon  old  Dolly,  except  to  make  her  prick  up 
her  ears,  and  shake  her  mane  and  tail.  How- 
ever, the  clatter  of  her  hoofs  was  heard,  and  mil- 
ler Dusty  turned  his  head,  when  farmer  Buntling 
saw  at  once  he  would  have  no  corn  ground  that 
day. 

Miller  Dusty  was  about  seventy  years  of  age, 
but  hale  and  hearty.  The  little  mill  had  been 
his  father's  before  him,  and  a  sort  of  heir-loom  in 
the  family ;  and  for  half  a  century,  with  but  two 
episodes,  tha  same  suit  of  dusty-brown  clothes 
had  come  out  to  welcome  the  villagers  with  thnr 
bags,  —  the  same  whitish  hat,  encasing  a  rf/sy, 
round,  good-natured  -fonn  and  face,  which  be- 
longed apparently  to  the  same  specimen  of  the 
Dusty-brown  family.  The  two  episodes  of  which 
I  speak  were,  when  Dusty-brown  senior  and 
Dusty-brown  junior  had  respectively  thought,  as 
matters  were  "  gwing  on  purty  well  at  the  mill, 
they  might  e'en  as  well  look  arter  farmer  Smith's 


S80 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


darter  Sally  for  Dusty  senior,  and  farmer  Baker^s 
down-in-the-holler  daughter  Betsy  for  Dusty 
junior."  At  these  particular  times,  both  the 
young  Dustp  underwent  the  same  metamorpho- 
sis,—  the  dust  was  carefully  kept  from  their 
clothes  for  just  four  weeks ;  but,  with  these  two 
exceptions,  the  Dusty-browns  were  a  race  peculiar 
and  indigenous  to  that  little,  old,  itself  dusty- 
brown  mill. 

But  this  morning,  to  farmer  Buntling's  sur- 
prise, when  miller  Dusty  turned  round,  he  saw  a 
surprising  change  in  him ;  —  his  clothes,  hat, 
and  shoes,  were  no  longer  dusty,  nor  was  his  face 
round,  rosy,  or  good-natured.  What  could  be 
the  matter  ?  Farmer  Buntling  turned  it  over  in 
his  mind.  It  was  not  the  death  of  his  wife,  for 
she  had  been  dead  several  years.  It  must  be 
his  son's  wife  was  dead ;  and,  reining  in  Dolly  to 
a  more  funereal  pace,  if  possible,  he  went  slowly 
up  to  miller  Dusty.  Now,  farmer  Buntling  was 
one  of  those  who  think  they  know  everything, 
and  who  want  everybody  to  see  that  they  always 
know  things  beforehand ;  so,  going  quietly  up  to 
miller  Dusty,  without  his  usual  "  Good-morning ; 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


281 


how  are  ye?"  vociferated  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs,  he,  as  I  said  before,  rode  quietly  up,  tied 
Dolly  slowly  and  solemnly,  took  out  his  yellow 
cotton  handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  eyes,  rubbing 
them  quite  hard,  and  walking  in  very  solemn 
style,  said,  "  Sorry  for  you,  friend  Dusty ;  but  we 
must  bear  these  things  philosophically  ! "  giving 
him,  at  the  same  time,  a  sympathizing  shake  of 
the  hand.  "  I  came  to  get  a  couple  of  sacks  of 
com  ground ;  but,  if  you  do  not  feel  like  grinding, 
I'll  do  it  myself;  but  you  must  not  take  on 
about  this  affliction.  We  must  all  give  up  our 
blessings,  when  the  Lord  wills." 

"  Then  I  'm  thinking  you  '11  need  your  philoso- 
phy yourself,  farmer  Buntling;  for  neither  j'-ou 
nor  I  will  grind  corn,  this  morning,  nor  any  other 
morning,  the  way  the  brook  looks  now." 

"  You  don't  say  so ! "  returned  farmer  Bunt- 
ling.     "  But  I  must ;  —  my  family  '11  starve." 

"  They  '11  have  to  starve,  then ;  for  not  a  drop 
of  water  has  run  in  the  brook  since  Saturday, 
and  it  must  be  turned  off  entirely,  or  enough 
would  come  to  turn  slow." 

With  a  most  demure  and  sympathizing  look,  the 
24* 


282 


THE   DEFAULTma  BROOK. 


two  wertt  together  to  examine  the  brook,  which 
they  found,  of  course,  dry;  when,  leaving  miller 
Dusty,  farmer  Buntling  hastened  off  to  the 
nearest  mill,  which  was  a  long  way  off. 

A  week  after  this,  he  heard  .miller  Dusty  was 
very  sick.  He  went  to  see  him.  He  found 
him  pale,  emaciated,  and  miserable.  "  O,  neigh- 
bor Buntling ! "  said  he,  when  he  saw  him,  "  I 
am  glad  you  have  come,  for  I  want  to  advise 
with  you.  At  my  time  of  life,  it  is  a  sad  thing 
to  come  to  want ;  nevertheless,  I  am  destined  to 
do  so.  The  little  I  have  laid  by  will  not  last 
long ;  and,  now  the  brook  is  dry,  I  have  nothing 
to  do;  and,  alas!  I,  that  have  brought  all  my 
children  up  honest  and  respectable,  must  die  in 
the  poorhouse ! "  and  the  old  man  burst  into  tears. 
Farmer  Buntling  did  all  he  could  to  comfort  him, 
and,  taking  his  leave,  returned  home,  soliloquizing 
to  himself,  as  he  went  along,  "  What  upon  airth 
could  ha'  sot  that  brook  to  stopping  ?  It  will  be 
the  death  on  him  —  I  see  it." 

Just  as  he  had  uttered  these  words,  he  had 
arrived  at  the  bend  of  the  brook!  The  brook 
heard,  and  shuddered.      She  had   known  the 


TBE   DEFAtTLTINO  BROOK. 


283 


Dusty-brown  millers  so  long,  —  old  and  tried 
friends  they  had  been ;  and  the  thought  that  she 
should  be  the  death  of  one !  —  but  no,  it  could 
not  be ;  farmer  Buntling  was  speaking  ironically^ 
she  knew ;  so,  wrapping  herself  up  in  her  pano- 
ply of  green,  she  grew  more  selfish  and  hard- 
hearted. 

The  village  school  was  out,  and  the  noi53r 
voices  of  the  merry  urchins  might  be  heard,  for  a 
mile,  as  with  youthful  glee  they  sported  round. 
"  O  dear !  oh  dear ! "  exclaimed  the  voices  of 
several,  coming  to  the  brook.  "  What  shall  we 
do,  if  the  brook  never  runs  again  ?  How  much 
we  miss  it !  We  come  so  far,,  it  is  dreadful  to< 
have  no  water  when  we  get  here."  The  brook 
heard,  and  began  to  feel  like  relenting ;  for  she 
loved  the  sweet  children  that  so  often  played  at 
her  side ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  for  all  her  despis- 
ing their  opinion  of  her,  she  felt  lonesome,  up 
there  amo-ig  the  hills,  without  her  pretty  play- 
mates. But,  like  human  beings  who  hug  to 
themselves  a  whim,  or  delusion,  and  ward  off 
everything  that  would  convince  them  of  it* 
fallacy,  she   said,  "Well,  when  I  get  rich  and 


284 


THE   DEFAULTING  BROOK. 


great,  I  will  surprise  and  please  them  more;" 
and  contented  herself  with  the  vain  fancy  of 
doing  some  great  and  wonderful  thing  by  and 
by,  instead  of  quietly  and  contentedly  doing  a 
little  good  now,  in  an  unostentatious  way,  and 
which,  after  all,  would  result  in  more  than  a 
little  good ;  but,  being  only  a  brook,  she  could  not 
see  it. 

It  was  now  mid-summer ;  —  the  whole  land- 
scape was  parched  and  dry,  and  at  mid-day, 
weary  and  panting  with  the  toils  and  heat  of  the 
day,  the  industrious  and  hard-working  farmer 
brought  his  cattle  to  water ;  but,  lo !  and  behold  ! 
not  a  drop !  —  the  stream  from  whence  they  had 
so  often  slaked  their  thirst  and  cooled  their  feet 
had  vanished !  "  Good  gracious ! "  said  the  farm- 
er, who  was  a  pious  man,  and  would  not  swear, 
"  what  can  this  mean  ?  "  and  suddenly  reminded 
of  what  a  Millerite  neighbor  had  been  trying 
in  vain  to  impress  him  with,  he  said,  "  Bother 
the  luck !  he  '11  call  this  another  •  sign.'  Miserable 
brook,  to  dry  up  just  now,  when  we  want  it  most ! 
But  it  is  rayther  curious,  though,  aint  it,  Brin- 
dle  ? "  stroking  the  front  of  a  fine-looking  ox,  who 


THE   DEFAULTING  BROOK. 


285 


had  worked  hard,  and  wanted  drink ;  "  twenty- 
four  hours  ago,  there  was  water  here,  plenty; 
'refreshment  for  both  man  and  beast,'  as  the 
tavern  sign  says;  but  now  we  must  go  further 
and  fare  worse,  as  I  told  Susan,  when  she  said 
she  did  n't  love  me !  "  And  here  he  appeared  to  be 
irritated,  either  by  thirst  or  unpleasant  reflections, 
both  of  which  were  caused  by  the  defaulting 
brook ;  and  striking  the  nigh  ox  a  rather  severe 
blow,  he  sent  them,  on  the  run,  a  half-mile  fur- 
ther, for  water. 

The  brook  had  heard  all  this,  but  did  not  care 
much,  till  the  blow  fell  upon  the  poor  ox.  This 
cut  her  to  the  quick ;  for,  as  the  Homeopathists 
say,  "  like  is  very  agreeable  to  like ;"  and  as  the 
cattle  had  so  gratefully  returned,  day  after  day, 
to  receive  her  cool  attentions,  she  had  felt  animate^ 
and  warmed  by  their  regards  and  pleasant  faces, 
until  a  reciprocity  of  enjoyment  and  sympathy 
had  sprung  up  between  these  otherwise  unlike 
portions  of  nature  and  creation.  Drops  stood  in 
her  eyes,  and  ficods  of  giief  choked  her  utter- 
ance, or  she  would  have  called  out  to  them,  from 
her  hiding-place,  to  come  back,  and  she  would 


286 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


run  down  to  where  they  stood,  and  meet  them ; 
but  they  went  away  so  fast,  they  were  gone 
before  she  had  time  or  power  to  speak  a  word. 
More  sulky  and  uncomfortable  now,  from  her  dis- 
appointment, she  declared  she  would  not  go  now, 
at  all,  never ;  but  would  remain  where  she  was, 
always.  •'  *  Miserable  brook ! '  he  called  me,  did 
he  ?  He  shall  see  I  am  not  to  be  obtained  in  that 
way !  I  wont  go  now,  at  all ! "  and  she  relapsed 
into  that  state  of  belligerent  suUenness  which 
all  people  feel  who  persist  in  a  course  of  action 
they  are  convinced  is  wrong. 

The  summer  passed  away,  —  the  winter  set 
in;  and  untrodden  snows  surrounded  the  poor 
brook.  As  struggling  rays  of  sunshine  rested 
upon  her  waters,  they  responded  not  with  their 
i)sual  gleeful  sound  of  leaping  and  running 
among  rocks  or  over  a  pebble  bed;  for,  sullen 
and  stagnant,  the  brook  gave  no  sound,  save, 
now  and  then,  a  groan  or  sigh,  as  she  thought 
how  uncomfortable  she  had  made  herself.  For- 
merly, at  morning,  noon,  and  night,  the  pretty 
prattling  of  children,  as  they  went  to  and  from 
school,  had  been  cheering  her;  and  the  lowing 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


as"? 


of  flocks  and  herds,  as  they  went  past.  Now, 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  howling  of  the  bleak 
winds,  as  they  blew  among  the  hills ;  no  prints 
of  little  feet  and  little  sleds  were  on  her  borders ; 
only  one  uninterrupted  icy  chain  of  snows  sur- 
rounded her.  The  old  mill  was  untenanted ; 
miller  Dusty-brown  had  gone  home  to  a  son's 
house,  almost  broken-hearted,  to  die ;  and  the  vil- 
lage itself  seemed  almost  another  village,  since 
the  brook  —  which  turned  the  mill,  which  watered 
the  cattle,  pleased  the  children,  and  gladdened  all 
eyes  with  the  dashing  and  leaping  of  its  clear 
bright  waters  —  had  so  suddenly  vanished,  —  the 
naughty  defaulting  brook ! 

Another  summer's  sun  shone  on  that  pretty 
village,  but  it  shone  on  the  dry  bed  of  that  wilful 
brook.  The  Mexican  war  was  ended,  —  our 
volunteers  were  returning,  poor,  ragged,  and 
sick;  seeking  their  homes,  toil-worn  and  black- 
ened, and  many  of  them  to  die.  One  of  these 
might  have  been  seen,  slowly  and  with  difficulty, 
threading  his  way  to  this  village.  A  scar  over  a 
very  pale  and  haggard  brow  told  of  wounds  as  well 
OS  sickness,  while  his  tottering  and  feeble  steps 


288 


THE    PPFAULTINO   BROOK. 


evinced  great  weariness  and  exhaustion.  On  the 
borders  of  a  piece  of  wood,  he  paused,  and, 
panting,  said  to  himself,  "  O !  if  I  had  but  strength 
to  get  a  little  further  through  this  wood !  then, 
then  —  "  and  a  glow  overspread  his  pale  features, 
—  "  shall  I  see  my  childhood's  home,  —  my 
mother's  house!  O!  that  I  might  once  more 
lean  upon  her  breast !  —  once  more  feel  her  soft 
hand  upon  my  brow!  —  once  more  hear  her 
offer  for  her  wandering  but  repentant  boy  an 
earnest  prayer! "  Staggering  on,  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  wood ;  but  there  ue  was  obliged  to 
rest.  It  was  now  the  middle  of  a  very  hot  day, 
in  summer.  The  thickest  shade  of  the  trees 
seemed  to  be  penetrated  by  the  burning  sun,  and 
he  was  parched  with  thirst.  Rising,  after  resting 
a  short  time,  he  said,  ^'  I  must  go  on  as  far  as 
the  brook!  I  shall  certainly  die  here!  I  must 
have  water  to  cool  this  bum  :ag  fever  in  my 
veins ! "  Struggling  on,  he  did  not  stop  till  he 
reached  what  was,  alas !  only  the  dry  bed  of  the 
ambitio  brook !  With  a  groan  and  a  gasp,  he 
fell  W]pi\  I.  ^  lace;,  'uming  his  eyes  towards  the 
beautiful  '.il.age,  —  the  loved  village,  —  the  vil- 


7HI  DBFAVLTmo    B&OOK. 


lage  of  his  infancy,  —  the  abode  oi  one  whose 
image  had  sustained  him  in  many  an  hour  of 
desp'jiidtncy  and  suffering.  But  he  should  see 
$\ti  no  iii  jre !  He  must  die,  —  die,  without  one 
loveil  tone,  —  one  dear  form  to  be  near  to  soothe 
his  passage  out  of  this  world ! 

A  whole  lifetime  of  twenty-five  years  now  came 
unbidden  into  a  moment's  thoughts.  His  soul 
seemed  invested  with  infinite  powers  of  remem- 
brance and  thought.  All  his  misdeeds, — all  his 
forgetfulness  of  a  father's  counsels,  of  a  mother's 
prayers, — all,  all  rushed  through  his  soul,  and  he 
groaned  in  agony.  The  groan  was  heard  by  the 
brook,  who,  listening  attentively,  heard  him  say, 
"  O  God !  mtist  I  die  ?  and  perhaps  not  be  discov- 
ered here  for  weeks  or  months,  —  and  then  I  am 
so  altered  I  should  not  be  recognized;" — and  he 
groaned  more  bitterly  than  ever.  There  is  some- 
thing in  man's  social  nature  that  recoils  from  a 
death-couch  far  from  any  human  being ;  and  the 
poor  youth  continued,  "  O  my  mother !  Could  you 
but  know  your  poor  James  was  here,  how  would 
you  run  to  him  !  —  and  Nora !  Nora ! " 

The  brook  well  knew  who  Nora  was.  Often 
25 


290 


THE    DEFAULTINQ   BROOK. 


and  often  had  the  radiant  form  and  face  of  the 
lovely  girl  been  reflected  from  the  clear  waters  of 
the  brook,  as  she  bound  flowerets  in  her  hair,  or 
waded  through  the  limpid  waters ;  and  often  had 
she  heard  the  name  of  James  from  Nora's  lips, 
when  no  human  eye  or  ear  was  nigh,  to  witness 
the  fluttering  of  her  beautiful  breast,  or  listen  to 
her  gentle  sighs.  Well  did  the  brook  remember 
that  just  in  the  place  where  he  now  lay,  James 
had  bidden  her  farewell ;  and  she  became  much 
agitated  at  the  recollection,  and  listened  ner- 
vously, and  with  many  misgivings  as  to  whether 
she  had  done  right  in  drying  up  the  dying  trav- 
eller's draught.  Once  again  he  spoke,  —  "0  my 
God !  pardon  a  repentant  sinner ;  have  mercy  on 
my  poor  mother,  if  she  finds  me  here.  Bless 
Nora,  —  may  she  think  of  me !  0,  if  I  had 
only  a  drop  of  water,  I  might  see  you  again,  — 
all  of  you ;  but,  without  it,  I  must  die !  " 

The  brook  could  no  longer  listen  quietly. 
That  the  dear  boy,  who  had  paddled  his  tiny  feet 
in  her  waters,  sailed  his  mimic  boat  upon  her 
bosom,  drank  often  and  often,  when  a  handsome 
youth,  at  her  gushing  rills,  should  now  die  for 


THE   DEFAULTING  BROOK. 


291 


the  want  of  one  little  draught,  she  could  not 
endure.  She  became  more  and  more  agitated 
and  restless,  until,  at  last,  with  one  bound,  she 
sprang  from  her  guilty  hiding-place,  and,  rushing 
over  the  rocky  bed,  flew  to  his  feet.  The  poor 
man  heard  a  sound  as  of  water  mocking  his 
dying  moments,  and,  lifting  once  more  his  failing 
eyes,  behold !  —  there  was  water.  Like  a  loving 
spirit,  it  kissed  his  brow  and  hands  and  blistered 
feet,  and  brought  sweet  fresh  flowers  for  him  to 
smell,  and  soon  he  began  to  revive ;  and  as  he 
revived,  and  arose  and  went  home,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  heard  sobs  and  sighs,  and  then  again 
a  laugh,  as  if  some  one  was  crying  and  laughing 
for  joy ;  but  he  could  see  no  one,  and  concluded 
it  was  but  the  noise  of  the  brook  running  past. 
So  was  it,  indeed.  Wi*h  the  first  return  to  duty, 
and  the  kind  offices  of  love  and  benevolence,  had 
come  such  a  gush  of  happiness,  that  she  was 
almost  wild  with  joy,  and  laughed  and  danced 
and  sung.  At  the  same  time,  sobs  of  repentance 
occasionally  interrupted  her  gladness,  that  she  had 
been  so  remiss. 

Desirous  now  to  make  amends  for  past  neglect, 


392 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


she  hastened  on  down  to  the  village.  It  was,  as 
I  said,  midday,  and  the  children  soon  espied  her ; 
and  shouts  of  joy,  and  huzzas  of  rejoicing,  soon 
rent  the  air  for  the  return  of  their  old  friend.  The 
little  girls  said  they  could  hug  and  kiss  the  dear 
water.  She  had  to  stop  one  moment,  and  play 
with  and  return  the  kind  greetings  of  the  chil- 
dren, and,  while  doing  this,  she  espied  her  old 
friends,  the  cattle;  and  the  grateful  look  with 
which  the  dumb  creatures  stepped  once  more  into 
her  refreshing  waters  was  sweeter  to  her,  in  her 
better  state  of  feelings,  than  the  noisy  praise  of 
some  human  voices. 

There  was  one  thing  the  brook  remembered  with 
anxiety ;  that  was,  that  the  old  miller  was  sick. 
"  Ah !  if  he  were  dead,  she  could  never  atone ! " 
Hastening  on,  with  an  agitated  movement  and  a 
heaving  breast,  she  was  filled  with  regret  to  see 
the  old  mill  —  the  pretty,  romantic  old  mill  — 
neglected,  useless,  falling  to  ruins.  Rushing  in 
and  out,  she  made  all  the  noise  she  could,  to 
attract  miller  Dusty-brown,  if  alive;  but  she 
found  the  house  empty,  and,  supposing  he  was 
dead,  was  just  turning  to  run  further  on,  when 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


293 


she  saw  the  old  man  coming,  —  hurrying,  has- 
tening, all  excited,  —  to  see  if  it  could  be  true  that 
the  brook  had  come  back,  and  that  the  mill  would 
again  work.  He  looked  at  the  poor  little  dam 
his  own  hands  had  reared ;  he  looked  over  to  the 
wheel;  he  looked  up  and  down  stream,  and  —  he 
was  an  old  man  —  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
"  Blessings  on  the  brook  I "  said  he,  at  length  ; 
"  I  shall  be  a  man  once  more.  This  is  the  hap- 
piest day  of  my  life.  Here,  you  boys,  some  of 
you  run  down  and  tell  my  son  John  to  come 
right  up,  as  I  shan't  come  back  again  ;  I  shall  live 
and  die  here."  Right  glad  was  the  brook  to  hear 
the  tremulous  tones  of  her  aged  friend,  the  mil- 
ler ;  and  to  find  everybody  so  glad  to  see  her, 
filled  her  with  delight.  Even  the  old  wheel  gave 
a  creak  of  satisfaction,  as  she  passed. 

As  she  hastened  further  on  to  the  next  village, 
she  observed  that  two  or  three  smaller  brooks, 
that  had  formerly  been  tributary  to  her,  were 
now,  owing  to  her  bad  influence  and  example, 
turning  aside,  and  withholding  their  waters  from 
the  general  good.  But  a  few  words  of  admoni- 
tion and  encouragement  from  her  inspired  them 
25# 


294 


THE   DEFAULTING   BROOK. 


with  new  life,  and  they  soon  followed  her  down 
to  a  large  manufacturing  town  on  the  banks  of 
the  river,  where  she  gladly  took  her  humble 
place,  wiser  and  better  for  her  folly  and  repent- 
ance. 

The  next  day,  she  was  oveijoyed  to  hear  the 
following  conversation  between  some  of  the  com- 
pany of  the  water-power: 

"  Well,  Mr.  Jones,  I  have  good  news  for  you." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Mr.  Jones. 

"  Why,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "  all  those  poor 
people  of  whom  you  spoke  to  me  a  while  since 
can  now  be  employed.  Our  tributaries  came 
down  from  the  mountains  so  freely,  yesterday  and 
last  night,  that  we  can  employ  a  hundred  more 
operatives.  The  lower  mill,  which  has  not  been 
worked  since  last  summer  at  this  time,  is  now 
flooded;  and  you  may  send  up  all  the  men, 
women,  and  children,  you  find  wanting  work,  and 
we  will  give  them  enough  to  do." 

"  Right  glad  am  I  to  hear  this,"  said  Mr.  Jones, 
"  for  the  poor  people,  who  were  turned  out  of  that 
mill  by  the  water  stopping  so  suddenly  suffered 
dreadfully  —  (a  wave  of  regret  and  sorrow  passed 


i^> 


THE   DEFAULTING  BROOK. 


295 


over  the  brook,  at  hearing  this)  —  and  I  rejoice 
that  they  can  again  have  work." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  first  speaker, "  we  are  all  look- 
ing up ;  for  all  the  wheels  needed  was  more  water, 
according  to  their  power,  and  we  are  rejoicing  in 
the  prospect.  It  seems  like  old  times ;  and  if  the 
stream  continues  to  run  as  full,  we  can  have 
another  dam  as  well  as  not,  and  another  shop,  still 
lower ; "  and  the  two  walked  away,  still  talking 
over  more  plans  of  improvement. 

The  brook  remained  very  thoughtful.  The 
reflections  which  arose  were  as  follows : 

"  How  could  I  have  envied  Niagara  ?  How 
could  I  have  been  dissatisfied,  when  I  was  making 
so  many  creatures  happy  ?  Ah  !  the  Creator  of 
the  universe  knows  best  which  waters  should  be 
Niagara,  which  the  little  brook.  Let  me  joyfully 
stand  in  the  lot  and  place  assigned  me,  and  make 
those  happy  around  me,  ambitious  not  for  admir- 
ation, but  to  do  my  duty." 

There  came  a  sudden  shower  and  a  rainbow, 
and  this  sweet  sentiment  of  duty  and  lofty  ambi- 
tion was  exhaled  in  the  mist,  and,  refracted  by  the 
sun,  was  written  on  the  bow,  addressed  to  every 


296 


THS  DEFAULTmO  BROOK. 


human  being,  thus:  "Up!  up!  to  life  and  to 
duty !  Do  a  little  good,  if  you  cannot  do  much  ,• 
and  be  ambitious  to  make  others  happy  and  be- 
loved, rather  than  to  be  admired." 


AMIE. 

0,  LAKE  of  crystal  clearness ! 

Thou  gav'st  thy  depths  of  blue, 
Thy  calm,  untroubled  azure, 
To  eyes  we  looked  into  ! 
While  feeling  added  tenderness  to  their  bewitch- 
ing hue ! 


•i-- 


t 


0,  blush  of  early  morning ! 

Thou  play'dst  upon  her  cheek, 
Where  ever  seemed  revealing 
The  th6ughts  she  dared  not 
To  give  them  further  utterance,  the  lips  were  all 
too  meek. 

0,  starlight  soft  and  tender ! 

Thou  gav'st  thy  saintly  smile 
To  glorify  a  beauty 

That  saint-like  seemed  the  while ! 
Like  some  rare,  antique  picture,  devoid  of  earthly 
guile. 


298 


AMIE. 


O,  soul  of  touching  melody ! 
Thou  livedst  in  her  tone ; 
Her  speech  we  listed  as  to  song, 
Her  voice  was  music's  own ; 
Her  soul  was  one  of  harmony,  and  not  her  voice 
alone ! 

O,  angels  of  the  Holy ! 
_      Ye  sure  to  her  were  kin ! 
So  meek,  so  pure  her  nature, 
So  free  from  taint  of  sin. 
O,  was  it  not  an  angel  that  dwelt  that  form 
within  ? 

0,  angels  of  the  Holy ! 

Ye  wiled  from  us  away 
The  light  that  chased  our  darkness, 
The  sun  that  made  our  day ! 
Say,  did  ye  lack  companionship,  that  here  she 
might  not  stay  ? 


0,  heaven  high  and  glorious ! 
Thou  shrin'st  one  jewel  more,  — 


IT-TT-TRiruB 


AMIE. 


299 


One  more  white  seraph  in  thy  choir, 
One  song  unheard  before ! 
Alas !  the  loan  thou  mad'st  us  thou  bad'st  us 
soon  restore ! 

M<  A*  Im 


THE  PARTING  OP  SIGURD  AND  GERDA. 

BT    MISS    KLIZABBTH    DOTEN. 

"  He  is  a  strong,  proud  man,  such  as  a  woman  might 
with  pride  call  her  partner  —  if  only  —  oh,  if  he  would 
but  understand  her  nature,  and  allow  it  to  be  worth 
something." — See  Miss  Bremer's  "Brolher$  and  Sis- 
ters.** 

She  stood  beneath  the  moonlight  pale, 

With  calm,  uplifted  eye, 
While  all  her  being,  weak  and  frail. 

Thrilled  with  her  purpose  high ; 
For  she,  the  long-affianced  bride, 

Must  seal  the  fount  of  tears. 
And  break,  with  woman's  lofty  pride, 

The  plighted  faith  of  years. 


Ay !  she  had  loved  as  in  a  dream, 
And  woke,  at  length,  to  find 

How  coldly  on  her  spirit  gleamed 
The  dazzling  light  of  mind. 


n 


THE  PARTINO  OF  SIOUKD  AND  OERDA.      301 

For  little  was  the  true,  deep  love 

Of  that  pure  spirit  known 
To  him,  the  cold,  the  selfish  one, 

Who  claimed  her  as  his  own. 

And  what  to  him  were  all  her  dreams 

Of  purer,  holier  life  t 
Such  idle  fancies  ill  became 

A  meek,  submissive  wife. 
And  what  were  all  her  yearnings  high 

For  God  and  "  Father-land," 
But  vain  chimeras,  lofty  flights. 

While  Sigurd  held  her  hand  ? 

And  then  uprose  the  bitter  thought, 

"  Why  bow  to  his  control  ? 
Why  sacrifice,  before  his  pride. 

The  freedom  of  my  soul  ? 
Better  to  break  the  golden  chain. 

And  live  and  love  apart. 
Than  feel  the  galling,  grinding  links. 

Wearing  upon  my  heart." 

He  came,  —  and,  with  a  soft,  low  voice. 
In  the  pale  gleaming  light, 
26 


302      THE   FABTINO  OF   SIGURD  AND  QERDA. 

She  laid  her  gentle  hand  in  his,  — 
"  Sigurd,  we  part  to-night. 

Long  have  these  bitter  words  been  kept 
Within  this  heart  of  mine, 

And  often  have  I  lonely  wept,  — 
I  never  may  be  thine." 

Proudly,  with  folded  arms,  he  stood, 

And  cold,  sarcastic  smile, — 
"  Ha !  this  is  but  a  wayward  mood, 

An  artful  woman's  wile. 
But  this  I  know ;  so  long  —  so  long 

I  held  thee  to  thy  vow. 
That  I  have  made  the  bond  too  strong 

For  thee  to  break  it  now." 


"  You  know  me  not ;  —  my  lofty  pride 

Was  hidden  from  your  eyes ; 
But  you  have  crushed  it  down  so  low 

It  gives  me  strength  to  rise. 
O !  all  my  bitter,  burning  thoughts, 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  tell ! 
Sigurd,  my  loved,  — forever  loved !  — 

Farewell !  one  more  farewell ! " 


n 


TBE   PARTING   OF   SIGURD  AND  OEBDA.      303 

One  moment,  and  those  loving  arms 

Were  gently  round  him  thrown ; 
One  moment,  and  those  quivering  lips 

Pressed  lightly  to  his  own ; 
And  then  he  stood  alone !  alone  ! 

With  eyes  too  proud  for  tears, 
Yet  o'er  his  stern,  cold  heart,  was  thrown 

The  burning  blight  of  years. 

O  man !  so  God-like  in  thy  strength, 

Preeminent  in  mind, 
Seek  not  with  these  high  gifts  alone 

A  woman's  heart  to  bind. 
For,  timid  as  a  shrinking  fawn, 

Yet  faithful  as  a  dove, 
She  clings  through  life  and  death  to  thee, 

Won  by  thine  earnest  love. 


THE  MEETING  OF  SIGURD  AND  GERDA. 

BT    MISS    SLIZABETH    DOTEN. 

**And  beautiful  now  stood  they  there,  man  and 
woman ;  no  longer  pale ;  eye  to  eye,  hand  to  hand,  as 
equals,  —  as  partners  in  the  light  of  heaven."  —  See 
Miss  Bremer^ 8  '* Brothers  and  Sisters." 

"  0,  EARLY  love !  oh,  early  love ! 

Why  does  thy  memory  haunt  me  yet  ? 
Peace !  I  invoke  thee  from  above,  — 

1  cannot,  though  I  would,  forget. 
How  did  I  strive,  with  prayers  and  tears. 

To  crush  this  wasting  passion-flame ! 
But  after  long,  long,  weary  years. 

It  burns  within  my  heart  the  same." 


She  wept,  —  poor  sorrowing  Gerda  wept, 
In  the  dark  pine^wood  wandering  'lone. 

While  cold  the  night-winds  past  her  swept. 
And  light  the  stars  above  her  shone. 

Dear,  suffering  dove !  her  song  was  hushed, 
The  blithesome  song  of  other  days, 


THE    MEETING   OF   SIGURD  AND  GERDA.      305 

Yet,  oh !  when  such  true  hearts  are  crushed, 
They  breathe  their  holiest,  sweetest  lays. 

A  step  was  heard.     Her  heart  beat  high ; 

Through  the  dim  shadows  of  the  wood 
She  glanced  with  quick  and  anxious  eye,  — 

Lo !  Sigurd  by  her  stood ; 
And  as  the  moon's  pale,  quivering  rays 

Stole  through  that  lonely  place. 
He  stood,  with  calm,  impassioned  gaze, 

Fixed  on  her  tearful  face. 

'*  Gerda,"  he  said,  "  I  come  to  speak 

A  long,  a  last  farewell ; 
Some  distant  land  and  home  I  seek. 

Far,  far  from  thee  to  dwell. 
O,  since  I  lost  thee,  gentle  one. 

My  truest  and  my  best, 
I  have  rushed  madly,  blindly  on. 

Nor  dared  to  think  of  rest. 

"  The  night  that  spreads  her  starless  wing. 
Beyond  the  northern  sea. 
Does  not  a  deeper  darkness  bring 
Than  that  which  rests  on  me. 
26* 


306      THE    MEETING   OF    SIGURD  AND   GERDA. 

Yet,  no !  I  will  not  ask  thy  tears 

For  my  deep  tale  of  woe ; 
Forgetfulness  will  come  with  years ; 

Gerda  —  my  love  —  I  go ! " 

"  Stay !  Sigurd,  stay !     0,  why  depart  ? 

See,  at  thy  feet  I  bow; 
O,  cherished  idol  of  my  heart, 

Reject  —  reject  me,  now !  " 
But  not  upon  the  cold,  damp  ground 

Her  bended  knee  she  pressed ; 
Upheld,  and  firmly  clasped  around, 

She  wept  upon  his  breast. 

'  Reject  thee  ?    No !    When  earth  rejects 

The  sunshine's  summer  glow. 
When  Heaven  one  suppliant's  prayer  neglects, 

Then  will  I  bid  thee  go. 
And,  by  the  watching  stars  above, 

And  by  all  things  Divine, 
I  swear  to  cherish  and  to  love 

This  heart,  that  beats  to  mine ! " 

O,  holy  sense  of  wrongs  forgot. 
And  injuries  forgiven ! 


THE    MEETING   OF   SIGURD  AND   GERDA.      307 


The  human  heart  that  feels  thee  not 
Knows  not  the  peace  of  heaven. 

Dear  Son  of  God !  thou  suffering  Dove, 
Who  taught  us  how  to  live, 

0,  teach  us  also  how  to  love, 
And  freely  to  forgive ! 


